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LIBRARY 

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presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 


Mr.   Frederick  A.   Roetter 


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Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/completepoeticalOOtenniala 


THE 


COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


ALFRED    XENNTSON. 


AUTHOR'S  HOUSEHOLD   EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R  OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

Lm  TicxMOB  &  Fields,  and  Fizlds.  Osgood,  &  Co. 

J872. 


Intered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871, 

BY    JAMES     R.    OSGOOD    &    00., 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washingtoa. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

To  THE  QUBBN I 

Clakibel I 

Lilian i 

Isabel       a 

Mariana a 

To 4 

Madeline 4 

Song.  —  The  Owl S 

Second  Song.  —  To  the  Same         ...                5 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights 5 

Ode  to  Memory 7 

Song 9 

Adeline 9 

A  Character lo 

The  Poet lo 

The  Poet's  Mind ii 

The  Sea-Fairies ii 

The  Deserted  House la 

The  Dying  Swan 13 

A  Dirge 13 

Love  and  Death 14 

The  Ballad  op  Oriana 14 

Circumstance 15 

The  Merman 15 

The  Mermaid 16 

Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K. 16 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 17 

Mariana  in  the  South 19 

Eleanore 30 

The  Miller's  Daughter 22 

Fatima 34 

CEnonb 25 

The  Sisters 28 

To 29 

The  Palace  op  Art 29 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Verb 33 

The  May  Queen 34 

New  Year's  Eve 36 

Conclusion 37 

The  Lotos-Eaters 38 

Choric  Song 39 

A  Dream  op  Fair  Women 41 

Margaret 46 

The  Blackbird 47 


IV  CONTENTS. 

Thb  Drath  of  thb  Old  Year 47 

To  J.  S 48 

"  You   ASK    ME,   WHY,    THO'    ILL   AT   EASE  " 49 

"  Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights  " 49 

"  Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought  " 50 

The  Goose 51 

English  Idyls  and  other  Poems: — 

The  Epic 52 

Morte  d' Arthur 52 

The  Gardener's  Daughter  ;  or.  The  Pictures 58 

Dora 62 

AuDLEY  Court 64 

Walking  to  the  Mail 66 

Edwin  Morris  ;  or.  The  Lake 68 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 70 

The  Talking  Oak 73 

Love  and  Duty y^ 

The  Golden  Year yg 

Ulysses 79 

Locksley  Hall 81 

Godiva 87 

The  Two  Voices 88 

The  Day-Dream  :  — 

Prologue 94 

The  Sleeping  Palace 95 

The  Sleeping  Beauty 95 

The  Arrival 96 

The  Revival 96 

The  Departure 96 

Moral 97 

L'Envoi 97 

Epilogue 9S 

Amphion 98 

St.  Agnes'  Eve 99 

Sir  Galahad icx> 

Edward  Gray loi 

Will  Waterproof's  Lyrical  Monologue 102 

To  ,    AFTER    reading   A    LiFE   AND    LETTERS 105 

To  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  Travels  in  Greece 105 

Lady  Clare 106 

The  Lord  of  Burleigh 107 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queek  Guinevere n>8 

A  Farewell 109 

The  Beggar  Maid 109 

The  Vision  of  Sin log 

"Come  not  when  I  am  dead" 112 

The  Eagle 113 

"Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave" 113 

"Break,  break,  break" 113 

The  Poet's  Song 113 

•'My  life  is  full  of  weary  days" 114 

The  Captain  ;  a  Legend  of  the  Navy 114 

Three  Sonnets  to  a  Coquette 114 

Song 115 

Song 115 

On  a  Mourner 115 

Northern  Farmer.    New  Style 116 

The  Golden  Supper 117 


CONTENTS.  V 

The  Victim  ......              ^ .  ^,       .       ■  103 

Wagbs 123 

The  Higher  Pantheism 124 

"  Flower  in  the  crannied  wall  " 124 

Lucretius 124 

Idylls  of  the  King:  — 

Dedication .        .  128 

The  Coming  of  Arthur 129 

Geraint  and  Enid 135 

Merlin  and  Vivien 162 

Lancelot  and  Elaine 175 

The  Holy  Grail 199 

Pelleas  and  Ettarrb  .....               211 

Guinevere ...  320 

The  Passing  of  Arthur 231 

The  Princess  :  a  Medley 238 

In  Memoriam 388 

Maud,  and  other  Poems:  — 

Maud 323 

The  Brook  ;  an  Idyl 343 

The  Letters 348 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington 348 

The  Daisy 352 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice 353 

Will 3S3 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 354 

Enoch  Arden,  and  other  Poems:  — 

Enoch  Arden 35S 

Aylmer's  Field 370 

Sea  Dreams 382 

The  Grandmother 387 

Northern  Farmer.    Old  Style 390 

Tithonus 391 

The  Voyage • 392 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 393 

Thb  Flower 394 

Requiescat 394 

The  Sailor-Bov 394 

The  Islet 394 

Literary  Squabbles 395 

The  Ringlet 395 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra 396 

Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the  International  Exhibition         .       .       .  396 

A  Dedication 397 

Experiments  :  — 

BoADICEA 397 

In  Quantity 398 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the  Iliad  in  Blank  Verse       ....  399 
Additional  Poems  :  — 

Timbuctoo 400 

Elegiacs 403 

The  "How"  and  the  "Why" 403 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a  second-rate  Sensitive  Mind  not  in  Unity  with  itself  404 

The  Burial  of  Love 406 

To .        .        ,                406 

Song 406 

Song 407 

Song  ...                .............  407 

Nothing  will  die 407 


VI  CONTENTS. 

All  Things  will  dir 408 

Hero  to  Lbander     .... .  408 

The  Mystic 409 

The  Grasshopper       . .  409 

Love,  Pride,  and  Forgktfulnkss 410 

Chorus  in  an  Unpublished  Drama,  written  very  sarly 410 

Lost  Hope .       .  410 

The  Tears  of  Heaven 410 

Love  and  Sorrow 411 

To  a  Lady  Sleeping 411 

Sonnet 411 

Sonnet 411 

Sonnet      ...  411 

Sonnet 413 


Love 


412 


The  Kraken 412 

English  War-Song .        .       413 

National  Song 413 

Dualisms 413 

We  are  Free 414 

The  Sea  Fairies 414 

Oi  piovres    . 415 

Sonnet 415 

To 415 

Bonaparte 416 

Sonnets 416 

The  Hesperidbs 4'6 

Rosalind 4'8 

Song 4^8 

Kate 4i9 

Sonnet  written  on  hearing  of  the  Outbreak  of  the  Polish  Insurrection      419 
Sonnet  on  the  Result  of  the  late  Russian  Invasion  of  Poland    .        .        .419 

Sonnet ■♦'9 

O  Darling  Room *^° 

To  Christopher  North 42° 

No  more ■♦20 

Anacreontics *^° 

A  Fragment 42° 

Sonnet 4" 

Sonnet ^21 

The  Skipping-Rope 4*' 

The  new  Timon  and  the  Poets 421 

Stanzas 422 

Sonnet  to  William  Charles  Macready 422 

Britons,  guard  your  own 422 

The  Third  of  February,  1852 423 

Hands  all  round 424 

The  War 425 

On  a  Spiteful  Letter 425 

1865- 1866 42s 

The  Window,  or  the  Songs  of  the  Wrens 426 

The  Last  Tournament » 429 


POEMS. 

(published  1830.) 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

Revered,  beloved —  0  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria,  —  since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  utter'd  nothing  base  ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modem  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there  ; 

Then  —  while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 
And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes  — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song  ; 
For  tho'  the  faults  were  tliick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 

Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long. 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 
As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 
May  children  of  our  children  say, 

"  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good  ; 

"  Her  couit  was  pure  ;  her  life  serene  ; 

God  gave  her  peace  ;  her  laud  reposed  ; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
I  n  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen  ; 

"And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"  By  shaping  some  august  decree. 
Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will, 

And  comjjass'd  by  the  inviolate  sea." 

MARCH,  1851. 


CLARIBEL. 


A  MELODY. 


Where  Claribel  low-lieth  _ 
The  breezes  pause  and  die. 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial. 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 

Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 
At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 

About  the  moss'd  headstone  : 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh, 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth. 
The  clear- voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth, 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


LILIAN. 
I. 
Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 
Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  1  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Claps  her  tiny  hands  aliove  me. 

Laughing  all  slie  can  ; 
She  '11  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me. 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 

II. 

When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-si"hs. 

She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 

Thoroughly  to  undo  me. 
Smiling,  never  speaks  : 


MARIANA. 


So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gather' d  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 

The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks ; 

Then  away  she  flies. 


Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian  ! 
Gayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian  : 
Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth  : 

Prythee  weep.  May  Lilian. 


Praying  all  I  can. 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  wiU  crush  thee. 

Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 


Eyes  not  down-dropt  nor  over  bright, 
but  fed 
"With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chas- 
tity, 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 
Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  translu- 
cent fane 
Ofher  still  spirit ;  locks  not  wide-dispread. 
Madonna -wise   on   either  side  her 

head ; 
Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did 
reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 
Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood. 

Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head. 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude. 
Of  perfect  wifehood  and  pui-e  lowli- 
head. 


The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 
Error  from   crime  ;   a  prudence  to 

withhold  ; 
The  laws  of  mamage  character' d  in 
gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart ; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 


To  read  those  laws  ;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress. 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  the'  un- 
descried. 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gen- 
tleness 
Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride ; 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey  ; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife. 

III. 

The  mellow'd  reflex  of  a  winter  moon  ; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer 
light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward 
brother  : 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite. 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had 
fallen  quite. 
With  cluster'd  flower-bells  and  ambro- 
sial orbs 
Of  rich  fniit-bunches  leaning  on  each 

other  — 
Shadow  forth  thee  :-^the  world  hath 
not  another 
(Tho'  all  her  fairest  fonns  are  types  of 

thee. 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 
Of  such  a  finish'd  chasten'd  purity. 


MARIANA. 

**  Mariana  in  the  moated  ^an^e." 

Measure  for  Measure. 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange  : 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch  ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  gi-ange. 

She  only  said,  ' '  My  life  is  tireary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried  ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 


MARIANA. 


"  Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 
Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried.' 


After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 
When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aw^eary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  ! " 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow : 

The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 
From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 

Came  to  her  :  wthout  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn. 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed 
mom 

About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 


She  only  said,  "  The  day  is  dreary. 
He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 


About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  .slept. 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 
The  cluster'd  marish-mos.ses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  .shook  alway. 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark  : 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  ! " 


MADELINE. 


And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  np  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro. 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low. 
And  wild  winds  bound  within  their 

cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  ' '  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd  ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 
Behind     the     mouldering    wainscot 
shriek'd. 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors. 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  ' '  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof. 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 

Her  sense  ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 

When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 

Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then,  said  she,  "  1  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said  ; 
She  wept,  "  1  am  aweary,  aweary, 
0  God,  that  I  were  dead  !  " 


TO 


Clear-headed    friend,    whose    joyful 
scorn. 
Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts  atwain 
The  knots  that  tangle  human  creeds, 
The  wounding  cords  that   bind   and 
strain 
The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Kay-fringed  eyelids  of  the  mom 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  as  thine  : 
If  aught  of  projjhecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 


Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit ; 

Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited  brow  : 

Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not  now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 
Nor  martyr-flames,  nor  trenchant  swords 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie  ; 

A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die. 
Shot  thro'  and  thro'  with  cunning  words. 


Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch, 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost  need, 
Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed, 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 

And  weary  with  a  finger's  touch 

Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightning  speed ; 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old, 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 

Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  brook  the  livelong  night, 

And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 

In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 


Thou  art  not  steep'd  in  golden  languors. 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine. 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thro'  light  and  shadow  thou  dost  range, 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers. 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 


Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Eevealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  :  but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter  ? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter, 

Who  may  know  ? 
Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine. 
Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed,  are  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another. 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother  ; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine  ; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore. 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


A  oubtle,  sudden  flame, 

By  veering  passion  fann'd, 
About  thee  breaks  and  dances  ; 

When  I  would  kiss  thy  hand, 
The  flush  of  anger'd  shame 

O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances. 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown  : 
But  when  I  turn  away, 
Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest ; 
But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 

All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 
In  a  golden-netted  smile  ; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 
If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously, 
Again  thou  blushest  angerly  ; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 


SONG.— THE  OWL. 

I. 
When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb. 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round. 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits. 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch. 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay. 
And  the  cock  liath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay  ; 
Alone  and  wanning  his  five  wits. 
The  white  owl  in  tne  belfry  sits. 


SECOND  SONG. 


TO  THE  SAMB. 


Tirv  tuwhits  are  luU'd,  I  wot. 
Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Wliich  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
So  took  echo  with  ilelight, 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 

Tliat  li(!r  voice  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 


I  would  mock  thy  chant  anew  ; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it ; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 
With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   THE 
ARABIAN   NIGHTS. 

When  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew 

free 
In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy. 
The  tide  of  time  flow'd  hack  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time  ; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer-morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne. 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old  ; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim. 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim. 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  side  : 
In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,  where  clear-stemm'd  platans  guard 
The  outlet,  did  1  turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which  crept 
Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 
A  goodly  [)la(^e,  a  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ri(^d  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-sti'own  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  niglit 
I  enter' d,  from  the  clearer  light. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


'  Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold.' 


Im'bower'd  vaults  of  pillar'd  palm, 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which,  as  they  clomb 
Heavenward,   were  stay'd  beneath   the 
dome 
Of  hollow  houghs.  —  A  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward  ;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seem'd  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-color'd  shells 
Wander'd  engrain'd.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 


From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large. 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  jirime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off",  and  where  the  lemon  gi-ove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung. 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung  ; 
Not  he  :  but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  deliglit, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love. 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd, 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber' d :  the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind  : 
A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 


ODE  TO   MEMOKY. 


Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold-green, 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead. 
Distinct  with  vivid  stai-s  inlaid. 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame  : 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank. 
Entranced  with  that  place  and  time. 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn  — 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound. 
And  many  a  shadow-chequer'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound,    , 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks. 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn. 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time. 
In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors. 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors. 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Kan  up  with  golden  balustrade. 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time. 
And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow- vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous 
time 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone, 
Serene  with  argent -lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness^  and  a  brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony. 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl. 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone  ; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time. 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side. 
Pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Down-droop' d,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper' d 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride. 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him  —  in  his  golden  prime. 
The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid  ! 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 


Thott  who  stealest  fire. 
From  the  fountains  of  the  past. 
To  glorify  the  present  ;  0,  haste, 

Visit  my  low  desire  ! 
Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 
I  faint  in  this  obscurity. 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  not  as  thou  camest  of  late. 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day  ;  but  robed  in  soften'd 
Ught 
Of  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  camest  with  the  morning 
mist. 
Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn  have 
kiss'd. 
When  she,  as  thou, 
Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely 

freight 
Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest  shoots 
Of  orient  gi-een,  giving  safe  pledge  of 

fruits. 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 


nr 


L^. 


ODE   TO   MEMORY. 


"WTulome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning 
mist, 
And  with  the  evening  cloud, 
Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my 

open  breast 
(Those  peerless  flowerswhichin  the  rudest 
wind 
Never  grow  sere, 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind, 
Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the 
year). 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken 

rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant 

Hope. 
The  edd5dng  of  her  garments  caught  from 

thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence  ;  and  the 
cope 
Of  the  half-attain'd  futurity, 
Tho'  deep  not  fathomless, 
Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which 

tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  distress  : 
For  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth  could 

dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and 

beautiful  : 
Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres, 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity. 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  forth,  I  charge  thee,  arise. 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad 

eyes  • 
Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting 
vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 
Divinest  Memory  ! 
Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried  : 
Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray 

hill-side. 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door. 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 


Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves. 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn. 

In  every  elbow  and  turn, 
The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland. 

0,  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled 
folds. 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds. 
When  the  first  matin-song  hath  waken'd 

loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn. 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung 
cloud. 


Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed  ; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led. 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers. 
Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 
In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 
With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought 
gold; 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first 

essay. 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 
Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 
Upon  the  storied  walls  ; 
For  the  discovery 
And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee. 
That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of  fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weiglis 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
The  first-born  of  thy  genius.    Artist-like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  days  : 
No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be  ; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushless 

Pike, 
Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 
Overblown  with  murmure  harsh, 
Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 
Stretch'd  Avide  and  wild  the  waste  enor- 
mous marsh, 
Where  from  the  frequent  bridge. 
Like  emblems  of  infinity. 
The  trenched  waters   ran  from  sky  to ' 

sky; 
Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 
With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 


ADELINE. 


Long   alleys   falling  down   to  twilight 

grots, 
Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender  : 
Whither  in  after  life  retired 
From  brawling  storms, 
From  weary  wind. 
With  youthful  fancy  reinspired, 
We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  many-sided  mind. 
And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 
My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne  ! 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG. 


A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers  : 

To  himself  he  talks  ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and 
sigh 
In  the  walks  ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy 
stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close, 
As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh 
repose 
An  hour  before  death  ; 
My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul 

grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting 
leaves. 
And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i*  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hang.s  the  tigej'lily. 


ADELINE. 


Mystekt  of  mysteries. 
Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine. 
Nor  unhapj)y,  nor  at  rest. 
But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair ; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 


Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine, 

Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon, 
Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still,  '^ 

As  a  Naiad  in  a  well. 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day. 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away, 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold  ? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine, 

Spiritual  Adeline  ? 


What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine  ? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline  ? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone  : 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings  1 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  wooes 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews  ? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise, 
How  the  meny  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  imderneath  ? 
Hast  thou  look'd  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise  ? 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine. 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 


Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind. 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All 'night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee  ?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften'd,  shadow'd  brow, 
And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine. 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  ? 


10 


THE  POET. 


Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies  ? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 
Wander  from  the  side  of  the  morn, 
Dripping  with  Sabsean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn. 
Breathing  Light  against  thy  face, 
While  his  locks  a-drooping  twined 
Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a  carcanet  of  rays, 

And  ye  talk  together  still. 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill  ? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine. 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


A  CHARACTER. 

With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  "The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things." 
.,      Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Jk:.  ■  Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty  :  that  the  dull 

Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air  ; 

Then  looking  as  't  were  in  a  glass, 

He  smooth' d  his  chin  and  sleek' d  his  hair, 

And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue  :  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by  : 
And  with  a  sweeping  of  the  arm. 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass' d  human  mysteries. 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes. 
And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

^     With  lips  depress'd  as  he  were  meek, 
^r     Himself  unto  himself  he  sold  : 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed  : 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold. 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed. 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE  POET. 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  bom. 

With  golden  stars  above  ; 
Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn 
of  scorn. 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good 
and  ill. 
He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay  :  with  echoing  feet  he 
threaded 
The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were 
headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame, 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver 
tongue. 
And  of  so  fierce  a  flight. 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung. 
Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which 
bore 
Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field 
flower. 
The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth 
anew 
Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance, 
grew 
A  flower  all  gold. 

And  bravely  furnish' d  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 
To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breath- 
ing spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with 
beams, 
Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven   flow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many 
dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the 
world 
Like  one  gi-eat  garden  show'd, 


THE   SEA-FAIRIES. 


11 


And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sun- 
rise 
Her  beautiful  lx)ld  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning 
eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies  ; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in 
flame 
Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred  name. 
And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they 
ran. 
And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man. 
Making  earth  wonder. 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.    No 
sword 
Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl' d, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his 
word 
She  shook  the  world. 


THE  POETS  MIND. 


Vkx  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit : 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind  ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever. 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river  ; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


Dark-brow'd  sophist,  come  not  anear  ; 

All  the  place  is  holy  ground  ; 
Hollow  smile  aud  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
Of  the  Inurel-shnibs  that  hedge  it  around. 
Tile  flowers  would  faintatyourcruel  cheer. 


In  your  eye  there  is  death. 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird's  din. 
In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry 

bird  chants, 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came  in. 
In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning, 
Ever  brightening 
With  a  low  melodious  thunder  ; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purj)le  mountain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder  : 
It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven 

above, 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love  ; 
And  yet,  tho'  its  voice  be  so  clear  and  full. 
You  never  would  hear  it  ;  your  ears  are 

so  dull ; 
So  keep  where  you  are  :  you  are  foul  with 

sin  ; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and  saw. 
Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
ning foam, 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 
pi-est 

To  little  harps  of  gold  ;  and  while  they 
mused. 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 

Shrill  music  reach'd  them  on  the  middle 


Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 

away  ?  fly  no  more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field, 

and  the  happy  blossoming  shore  ? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain 

calls ; 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea  ; 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells. 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill 

swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea  : 
0  hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your  sails. 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  : 


12 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play  ; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day  : 
Mariner,  manner,  furl  your  sails. 
For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales, 
And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales. 
And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and 

bay. 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the 

land 
Over  the  islands  free  ; 
And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of 

the  sand  ; 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see  ; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising 

wave. 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave, 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be  : 
0  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords. 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 
We  will   kiss  sweet  kisses,   and  speak 

sweet  words  : 
0  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee  : 


0  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden 

chords 
Euns  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er  ? 
Whither  away  ?  listen  and  stay :  mariner, 

mariner,  fly  no  more. 


THE   DESERTED   HOUSE. 


Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 

Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  : 
Careless  tenants  they  ! 


All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  windows  is  no  light  ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door. 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 


'  Life  :in<l   rh™;^;lit  have  jjune  away 
Side  by  side." 


A  DIKGE. 


13 


Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 
Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 


Come  away  :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 


Come  away  :  for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell ; 
But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city  —  have  bought 
A  mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  stayed  with 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 


The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air. 

Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gi'ay. 

With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 

Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan. 
And  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 

Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 


Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose. 
And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky. 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh ; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow. 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and 

still 
The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and 
yellow. 

III. 
The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 
Of  that  wa.ste  place  with  joy 
Hidden  in  sorrow  :  at  first  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear  ; 
And  Hoating  about  the  umh^r-sky. 


Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole 
Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear  ; 
But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice, 
With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 
Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold ; 
As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 
With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,   and 

harps  of  gold, 
And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roU'd 
Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 
To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  evening 

star. 
And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering 

weeds. 
And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank, 
And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds, 
And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing 

bank, 
And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  throng 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among. 
Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A  DIRGE. 


Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work  ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  gi-ave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  gi'ave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed  ; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  ? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


rocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee  ; 
he  woodbine  and  (-j^latere 
rip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 
Let  them  nive. 


14 


THE   BALLAD   OF   ORIANA. 


Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 


Round  thee  blow,  self -pleached  deep, 
Bramble  roses,  faint  and  pale, 
And  long  purjtles  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine  ; 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purj^le  clover. 

Let  theni  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine. 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Wild  words  wander  here  and  there 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused  : 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE  AND   DEATH. 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gather- 
ing light 
Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise, 
And  all  about  him  roll'd  his  lustrous  eyes ; 
When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in 

view 
Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a  yew, 
And   talking  to  himself,  first  met  his 

sight : 
"You  must  begone,"  said  Death,  "  these 

walks  are  mine." 
Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans  for 

flight ; 
Yet  ere  he  ])arted  said,    "This  hour  is 

thine : 
Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as  the 

tree 
Stands  in  thesun  andshadowsall beneath, 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death  ; 
The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree  shall 

fall. 
But  I  shall  reign  for  ever  over  all." 


THE   BALLAD  OF  ORIANA. 

My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 
When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd  with 

snow. 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  1  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana  : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana  ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  I'ode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana  : 
She  watch' d  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana  : 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  foi-th  there  stept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 
The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 
And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana  ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  mj'  bride, 

Oriana  ! 

Oh  !  naiTow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 


THE  MERMAN. 


15 


Oh  !  deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepeu'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana  ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana  ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  ? 
How  could  1  look  upon  the  day  ? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana  — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 

O  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 
Oriana  ! 

0  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana  ! 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana  : 
What  wantest  thou  ?  whom  dost  thou  seek, 

Oriana  ? 

1  cry  aloud  :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oiiana. 

0  cursed  hand  !  0  cursed  blow ! 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana  ! 
All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea, 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriaua. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 

Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  heathy 
leas ;,  , 

Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival ; 

Two  lovers  whisperingby  an  orchard  wall ; 

Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden 
ease  ; 

Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray 
church-tower, 

Wash'd  with  still  rains  and  daisy- 
blossomed  ; 

Two  children  in  one  hamlet  bom  and  bred ; 

So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to 
hour. 


THE  MERMAN. 


Who  would  be 
A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone. 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea. 
With  a  crown  of  gold. 
On  a  throne  ? 


I  would  be  a  merman  bold  ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  day  ; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of 

power  ; 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and 

With  tne  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the 
rocks, 

Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea- 
flower  ; 

And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing 
locks 

I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea. 

And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 
Laughingly,  laughingly ; 

And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 

To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight  and 
high, 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 


There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 
But  the  wave  would  make  music  above 

us  afar  — 
Low  thunder  and  light   in   the   magic 

night  — 


16 


SONNET   TO   J.    M.   K. 


Neither  moon  nor  star. 
We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy  dells, 
Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  iii^ht,  merrily,  merrily  ; 
They  would  Y»elt  me  with  starry  spangles 

and  shells. 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  be- 
tween, 

All  night,  memly,  merrily  : 
But   I   would   throw   to  them  back  in 

mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine  : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
J  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 
0,  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green  ! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea  ; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE  MERMAID. 


Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair. 
Singing  alone. 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea. 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  throne  ? 


I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair  ; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the 

day  ; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb  my 

hair ; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  and 

say, 
"Who  is  it  loves  me?  who  loves  not 

me?" 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets 
would  fall 
Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around. 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of 
gold 
Springing  alone 
With  a  shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall ; 


Till  that  gi'eat  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  centi-al  deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  in 

at  the  gate 
With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  then-  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


But  at  night  I  would  wander  away,  away, 
I   would  fling  on  each  side  my  low- 

flowing  locks, 
And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and 

play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the 

rocks ; 
We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and 

seek. 
On  the  broad  sea- wolds  in  the  crimson 

shells. 
Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the  sea. 
But  if  any  came  near  I  would  call,  and 

shriek, 
And  ado^Am  the  steep  like  a  wave  I  would 

leap 
From  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut  from 

the  dells  ; 
For  I  wouldnotbe  kiss'd  by  all  who  would 

list. 
Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the  sea ; 
They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and 

flatter  me. 
In  the  purple  twilights  imder  the  sea  ; 
But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry  me, 
Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me. 
In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the  sea  ; 
Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently. 
All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned, 

and  soft 
Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere 

of  the  sea, 
All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


SONNET   TO   J.    M.    K. 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  —  thou 

wilt  be 
A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 
To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  master's 

feast; 


THE  LADY  OF   SHALOTT. 


17 


Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of 

thee  : 
Thou  art  no  sabbath-diuwler  of  old  saws, 
Distill'd    from    some    worm  -  canker'd 

homily ; 
But  spurr'd  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 
To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 
With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 


The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 
Half  God's  good  sabbath,  while  the  worn- 
out  clerk 
Brow-beats  his  desk  below.     Thou  from 

a  throne 
Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the  dark 
Arrows  of  lightnings.     I  will  stand  and 
mark. 


POEMS. 

(published  1832.) 

[This  divisioD  of  this  volume  was  published  in  the  winter  of  1832.    Some  of  the  poems  have  been  considerably 
altered.    Others  have  been  added,  which,  with  one  exception,  were  written  in  1833.] 


THE   LADY   OF   SHALOTT. 


On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  iye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 
»  To  many-tower'd  Camelot ; 

And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below. 

The  island  of  Shalott: 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver. 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses  ;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  ? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 


Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  " '  Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 


There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be. 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot : 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls. 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls. 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market-girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shej)herd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad. 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 


18 


THE  LADY   OF   SHALOTT. 


The  knights  come  riding  two  and  tvo  : 
She  liiith  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  nurror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights, 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  ; 
"  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


A  BOW-SHOT  from  her  bower-eaves. 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield. 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field. 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung. 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick -jewell'd  shone  the  saddJe-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  buming  flame  together. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night. 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright. 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light. 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd ; 
On  bumish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode  ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"  Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom. 
She  made  three  paces  diro'  the  room, 


She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom. 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide  ; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side  ; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining. 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning. 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  coniplain- 

TT       .,  ^"S' 

Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Slmlott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse  — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay  ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among. 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy. 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly. 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden -wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by. 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high. 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 


MARIANA    IN    THE    SOUTH. 


19 


*' '  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,*  cried 
The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name. 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  tliis  ?  and  what  is  here  ? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer  ; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear. 

All  the  knights  at  Cainelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space  ; 
He  said,  ' '  She  has  a  lovely  face  ; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet, 
The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shines, 


Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat, 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines  : 
A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right. 
An  empty  river-bed  before. 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore, 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  "Ave  Mary,"  made  she  moan. 
And  "Ave  Mary,  "nigiit  and  morn. 
And  "Ah,  "she  sang,  "to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew. 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 

Thro'  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 

To  left  and  right,  and  made  a])pear. 
Still-lighted  in  a  secret  shrine. 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine. 

The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear. 


20 


ELEANORE. 


And  "Ave  Mary,"  was  her  moan, 
"  Madonna,    sad    is    night    and 
mom  "  ; 
And ' '  Ah,  "she  sang,  "  to  be  all  alon  e. 
To  live  forgotten,   and  love  for- 
V  lorn." 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 

Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea, 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast. 
Before  Our  Lady  luunnur'd  she  ; 
Complaining,.  "  Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load." 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

"  Is  this  the  form,"  she  made  her 
moan, 
"  That  won  his  praises  night  and 
morn  ? " 
And  "Ah,"  she  said,  "but  I  wake 
alone, 
I  sleep  forgotten,  I  wake  forlorn." 

Nor  bird  wouldsing,  nor  lamb  would  bleat, 
Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat. 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt ; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again. 

And   seem'd  knee-deep  in  mountain 

gra.ss, 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass. 
And  runlets  babbUng  down  the  glen. 
She  breathed  in  sleep  a  lower  moan, 
And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and 
mom, 
She  thought,   "My  spirit  is  here 
alone. 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn." 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream  : 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke  :  the  babble  of  the  stream 

Fell,  and,  without,  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 
And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 
She  whisper' d,  with  a  stifled  moan 
More  inward  thanatnightormom, 
"Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn." 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 
Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth. 

For  "  Love,"  they  said,  "must  needs  be 
true. 
To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth." 

An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 


To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 
' '  But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away. 
So  be  alone  for  evermore." 

"0  cruel  heart,"  she  changed  her 
tone, 
"And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is 
scom, 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn  !" 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 

An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door. 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

"  But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more." 
And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased. 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 
"The  day  to  night,"  she  made  her 
moan, 
"The  day  to  night,  the  night  to 
mom, 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

At  eve  a  drj^  cicala  sung. 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea  ; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung. 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears. 
And  deepening  thro'  the  silent  spheres. 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 

And  weeping  then   she   made   her 
moan, 
"  The  night  comes  on  that  knows 
not  morn, 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 


ELEANOKE. 


Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not. 

Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  English 
air. 
For  there  is  nothing  here, 
Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward 

brought. 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  off"  from  human  neighborhood, 

Thou  wert  born,  on  a  summer  mom, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 


ELEANORE. 


21 


With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades, 
But  thou  wert  uursed  in  some  delicious 
land 
Of  lavish  lights,  and  iloating  shades  : 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oiieutal  fairy  brought, 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth. 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills. 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 

And  shadow'dcovesonasunny  shore. 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore. 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 


Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 
Thro'  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone. 
With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gar- 
dens cull'd  — 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 
In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down, 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  luH'd. 


Who  may  minister  to  thee  ? 
Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
Gra|)e-thicken'd    from    the    light,    and 
blinded 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like 
flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 

Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven. 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowy  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore  ! 


How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express. 
How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 
Eleanore  ? 
The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore  ? 
Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine. 
Every  lineament  divine, 
Eleanore, 


And  the  steady  sunset  glow. 
That  stays  upon  thee  ?  For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing 
single  ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From    one    censer,    in    one 

shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle. 
Mingle  ever.     Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody, 
W  hich  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 
Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep ; 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore? 


I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore  ; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold. 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies. 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore. 
Gazing  on  thee  for  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore  ! 


Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 

Gazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,   smiling 

asleep. 
Slowly  awaken'd,  grow  so  full  and  deep 
In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower' d  quite, 
I  cannot  veil,  or  drooj)  my  sight. 
But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light : 
As  tho'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 
Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it. 
Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly 

"   grow 
To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 
Fix'd  —  then  as  slowly  fade  again. 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before  ; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow. 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 


As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 

Roof  d  the  world  with  doubt  iiiul  fear. 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atino.sphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky  ; 


22 


THE   MILLER  S   DAUGHTElt. 


In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless, 
Touch' cl  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness, 
Losing  his  five  and  active  might 

In  a  silent  meditation, 
Falling  into  a  still  delight, 

And  Inxury  of  contemplation  : 
As  waves  that  np  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  Ipng  still 
Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will : 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land. 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea  : 
And  the  self-same  influence 
ControUeth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slacken'd,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding  thee. 
And  so  would  languish  evermore. 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 


But  when  1  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses 

unconfined, 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 

Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and 
the  moon  ; 
Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 
On  silken  cushions  half  reclined  ; 

I  watch  thy  grace ;  and  in  its  place 
My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  keeps. 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face  ; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  :  soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  my  name 
Floweth  ;    and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife, 
My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I  lose  my  color,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd    with    delirious    dra\ights    of 
warmest  life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 
I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from 

thee; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  would  be  dying  evermore. 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


THE  MILLER'S   DAUGHTER. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet. 
His  double  chin,  his  portly  size. 

And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 
The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  ? 


The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 
His  dusty  forehead  drily  curl'd, 

Seem'd  lialf-within  and  half-without. 
And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 

In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit. 

Three  fingers  rountl  the  old  silvercup — 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest  —  gray  eyes  lit  up 
Witli  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad. 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole, 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  :  give  me  one  kiss  : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
Tliere  's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  bj'  and  by. 
Tliere  's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pmy,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  ? 

1  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I  'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire. 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire  : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long. 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan  ; 
But  ere  1  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before  I  dream'dtliat  pleasant  dream — 
Still  hither  thither  idly  sway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  lean'd  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise. 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crj'stal  eddies  glance  and  poise. 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones. 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 


THE  miller's  daughter. 


23 


But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
('T  was  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you. 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read. 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain. 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long, 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 

1  watch'd  the  little  circles  die  ; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood. 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye  ; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck. 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  wann 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set. 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette. 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge  : 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright  — 
Such  eyes  !  I  swear  to  you;  my  love. 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death  : 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 

And  fili'd  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 
My  mother  thought.  What  ails  the  boy  ? 

For  I  was  alter'd,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy. 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Thro'  (juiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor, 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel. 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold. 
When  April  nights  l>egan  to  blow, 

And  April's  crescent  glimnier'd  cold, 
I  saw  the  village  lights  below  ; 


I  knew  your  taper  far  away. 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope. 
From  off"  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the  mill ; 

And  "by  that  lamp,"  I  thought,  "  she 
sits  ! " 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 

Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
"  0  that  I  were  beside  her  now  ! 

0,  will  she  answer  if  I  call  ? 
0,  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow. 

Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ? " 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin  ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind. 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within  ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow   cross' d  the 
blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light. 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night. 

And  all  the  casement  darken' d  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak. 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with 
May, 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 

Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day  ; 
And  so  it  was  —  half-sly,  half-shy. 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one  ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly. 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire  : 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

1  might  have  look'd  a  little  higher  ; 
And  1  was  young  —  too  young  to  wed  : 

"  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake ; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said  : 

Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  1  went  to  fetch  my  bride  : 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease  ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too  fearful  that  you  sliould  not  j)lease. 
I  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  hut  well  ; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fall'n  in  tears, 

I  ki.ss'd  away  l)efore  they  fell. 

I  watch'd  the  little  fluttcrings, 

Tiie  doubt  my  motlicr  would  not  see  ; 

Slie  spoke  at  large  of  many  thin.i^s. 
And  at  the  last  she  sjmke  of  me  ; 


24 


FATIMA. 


And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face, 
As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 

And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 
Approaclung,press'dyouheart  to  heart. 

Ah,  well  —  hut  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
Wheu,  ami  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers  —  that  I  may  seem. 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream, 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 


It  is  the  miller's  daughter. 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear  : 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I  'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty  dainty  waist. 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 


A  trifle,  sweet !  which  tme  love  spells  — 
True  love  interprets  —  right  alone. 

His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 
•For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 

So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  tnitn 
You  must  blame  Love.     His  early  rage 

Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth, 
And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  \a\id  hours  are  gone, 

I-,ike  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 

Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart  : 
So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 

Half-anger'd  wath  my  happy  lot, 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 

I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 


Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 


Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 
Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?  for  we  forget : 

Ah,  no  !  no  ! 


Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True 
wife. 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  en- 
twine ; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life. 

Look  thro'  my  very  soul  with  thine  ! 
Untouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years. 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed  :  they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow  :  for  when  time  was  ripe. 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again, 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before  ; 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more. 

With  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee  : 
But  that  God  bless   thee,    dear  —  who 
wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth, 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds  ; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  ro.sy  folds. 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass. 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below  : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 


FATIMA. 

0  Love,  Love,  Love !  0  withering  might ! 
0  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  1  strain  my  sight, 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light, 


CENONE. 


25 


Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 
Lo,   parch'd  and  witlier'd,    deaf  and 

blind, 
I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I  wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city's  eastern  towers  : 
1  thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers  : 
1  roll'd  among  the  tender  flowers  : 
Icrush'dthemonmybreast,  mymouth : 
I  look'd  athwart  the  burning  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his  name. 
From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and  came 
A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shiver'd  in  my  naiTOw  frame. 

0  Love,  0  fire  !  once  he  drew 

With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  thro' 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I  know 
He  cometh  quickly  :  from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens,  blow 
Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon, 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire, 
And  from  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 
Is  pour'd  upon  the  hills,  and  nighcr 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire  ; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light. 
My  heart,  pierced  thro'  with  fierce  de- 
light. 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently. 
All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky, 
Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye  : 
I  loUl  pos.sess  him  or  will  die. 

1  will  glow  round  him  in  his  place. 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face. 
Die,  dying  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. 


(ENONE. 

Theue  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
Tlie  swimming  vapor  slo[)(;s  athwart  the 

glen. 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine 

to  pine, 
Andloiters,  slowly  drawn.   Oneitherhand 


The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway 

down 
Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them 

roars 
The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  clov'n 

ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 
Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning  :  but 

in  front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  I  lion's  column'd  citadel. 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  (Enone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  tlie  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 

her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with 

vine, 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain- 
shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 

upper  cliff. 

"0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass  : 
Tlie  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone, 
llests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  cicala  sleeps. 
The  purple  flowers  droop  :  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled  ;  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love. 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me,  0  Earth,  hear  me,  0  Hills,  0 

Caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown'd  snake  !  0 

mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Hose  slowly  to  a  niu.sic  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd  shape  :  for  it  maybe 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  itsdeeperwoe. 

"  0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd-  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
I  waited  underneath  tlie  dawning  hills. 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy -dark, 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  luouiit.iin  jiiue  : 


26 


CENONE. 


Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leadiug  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd, 

white-hooved, 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"0  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Far-off  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the 

cleft  : 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.     With  down- 

dropt  eyes 
I  sat  alone  :  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved  ;  a  leopard 

skin 
Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny 

hair 
Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a  God's  : 
And  his  cheek  brighten'd  as  the  foam- 
bow  brightens 
When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all 

my  heart 
"Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere 

he  came. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-white 

palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold, 
Thatsmeltambrosially,  and  while  I  look'd 
And  listen'd,   the  full-flowing  river  of 

speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  '  My  o\vn  (Enone, 
Beautiful-brow'd  (Enone,  my  own  soul. 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind 

iugrav'n 
"For the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to  award 

it  thine, 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married 

brows.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine. 
And  added  'This  was  cast  upon  the  board. 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the 

Gods 
Banged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus ;  whereupon 
Rose  feud,   with   question  unto  whom 

't  were  due  : 
But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve. 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common  voice. 
Elected  umpire,  Here  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the 

cave 


Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldestpine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  un- 
heard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  miilnoon  :  one  silvery 

cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  pincy  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.     Then  to  the  bower 

they  came. 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded 

bower, 
Andattheir  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel. 
Lotos  and  lilies  :  and  a  wind  arose. 
And  overhead  the  wanderingivyand  vine. 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro' 

and  thro'. 

"0  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit. 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and 

lean'd 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to 

whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that 

gl'OWS 

Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the 

Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith   to   embellish   state,    '  from 

many  a  vale 
And   river-sunder'd  champaign  clothed 

with  corn. 
Or  labor'd  mines  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,  'and  homage,  tax  and 

toll. 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven 

large. 
Mast-throng' d   beneath   her   shadowing 

citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

"  0  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  1  die. 

Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of 
power, 

'  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all  ; 

Power  fitted  to  the  season  ;  wisdom-bred 

And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all  neigh- 
bor crowns 

Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 


CENONE. 


27 


Fail  from  the  sceptre-stafF.     Such  boon 

from  me, 
From   me,    Heaven's  Queen,   Paris,   to 

thee  kiug-born, 
A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born. 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men, 

in  power, 
Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain'd 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's-length,  so  much  the  thought 

of  power 
Flatter'd  his  spirit ;  but  Pallas  where  she 

stood 
Somew^hat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted    with    the    brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold. 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply. 

•'  'Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self- 
control. 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign 

power. 
Yet  not  for  power,  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncall'd  for)  but  to  live  by 

law. 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear  ; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were   wisdom   in  the  scorn  of  conse- 
quence.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said :  'I  woo  thee  not  with  gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am, 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 
I  f  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbiass'd  by  self-profit,  0,  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to 

thee. 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood. 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a 

God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  tlno'  alife  of  shocks, 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Siiiew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown 

will. 


Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Conimeasure  perfjict  freedom.' 

"  Here  she  ceased, 
And  Paris  ponder' d,  and  1  cried,  '0  Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas  ! '  but  he  heard  me  not. 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me  ! 

"  0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful. 
Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathedinPaphian 

wells. 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her 

deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder  :  from  the  violets  her  light 

foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded 

form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated   the   glowing  sunlights,  as  she 

moved. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes. 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
Half- whisper' d  in  his  ear,  '  I  promise  thee 
The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece. ' 
She  spoke  and  laugh'd  :  I  shut  my  sight 

for  fear  : 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his 

arm. 
And  I  beheld  great  Herd's  angry  eyes. 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower  ; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone. 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

"Yet,  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest — why  fairest  wife  ?  am  I  not  fair  ? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methmks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday. 
When  I  pa-st  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard. 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful 

tail 
Crouch'd  fawning   in  the  weed.     Most 

loving  is  she  ? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my 

arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips 

prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling 

dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 


28 


THE   SISTERS. 


"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  talle.st  pines, 
My  dark  tall  pines,   that  plumed   the 

craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet — from  beneath 
Wliose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the 

dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while  I 

sat 
Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them  ;  never  see  them  over- 
laid 
With  narrow  moon -lit  slips  of  silver  cloud, 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling 
stars. 

"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd  folds. 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the 

glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her. 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall. 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board. 
And  bred  this  change ;  that  I  might  speak 

my  mind. 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and 

men. 

"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand 

times. 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this 

stone  i 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses  ?  water'd  it  with 

tears  ? 
O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these  ! 
O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my 

face? 
0  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my 

weight  ? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating 

cloud. 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth. 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live  : 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life. 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  woighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within. 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids  :  let  me  die. 

"  0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 


Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more 

and  more. 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  in- 
most hills. 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  puqwse,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born  :   her  child  !  —  a  shudder 

comes 
Across  me  :  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes  ! 

"  0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  0  earth.  I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lesttheirshrillhaiipy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of 

Death 
IJncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  i  ise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come 

forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  1  am  by  night  and  day. 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire." 


THE   SISTEES. 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face  : 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

She  died  :  she  went  to  burning  flame  : 
She  mix'd  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  tun-et  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and 

late. 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait  : 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  made  a  feast ;  I  bade  him  come  ; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed. 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head  : 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest  : 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


29 


I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell, 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 
0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

1  rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I  stabb'd  him  thro'  and  thro'. 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  curl'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head. 
He  look'd  so  grand  when  he  was  d.'ad. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 


TO 


WITH   THE   FOLLOWING    POEM. 

I  SEND  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 
(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a  soul, 
A  sinful  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 
A  spacious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 
A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain. 
That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty  seen 
In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind) 
And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty  ;  or  if  Good, 
Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 
That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge,  arc 

three  sisters 
That  doat  upon  each  other,  friends  to 

man. 
Living  together  under  the  same  roof. 
And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without  tears. 
And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn  shall 

be 
Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  thresh- 
old lie 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.    Not  for  this 
Was  conmion  clay  ta'en  from  the  common 

earth, 
Moulded  by  God,  and  temper'd  with  the 

tears 
Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 

I  BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said,  "0  Soul,  make  raerr}'  and  carouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well." 


A  huge  crag-platform,   smooth  as  bur- 
nish'd  brass 
I  chose.     The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.    Of  ledge  or  shelf 

The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "while  the  world  runs  round  and 
round,"  1  said, 
"  Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stedfast 
shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily  : 

"Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 
So  royal-rich  and  wide." 


Four  courts  I  made.   East,    West  and 
South  and  North, 
In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there 
ran  a  row 
Of   cloisters,    branch'd    like   mighty 
woods. 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  .sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the 
sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one 
swell 
Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 


30 


THE   PALACE    OF   ART. 


So  that  she  thought,   "And  who  shall 
giize  upon 
My  palace  with  iinblinded  eyes. 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ? " 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never 
fail'd, 
And,    while    day   sank    or   mounted 
higher 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail' d, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd 
and  traced. 
Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  interlaced, 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 


Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

Tfiat  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 
Thro'  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul  did 
pass. 
Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace 
stood, 
All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Natixre,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  ^'ith  arras  green  and 
blue. 
Showing  a  gaudy  summer-mom, 
Where   with    pufi'd    cheek   the   belted 
hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red  —  a  tract  of 
sand. 
And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  for  ever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  an dangiy  waves. 
You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing 
caves. 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  lierds  upon  an  endless  plain. 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low. 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 


And   one,   the   reapers   at   their  sultry 
toil. 
In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.    Be- 
hind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil. 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stone." 
and  slags. 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
AU  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud   the 
scornful  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home  —  gi'ay  twi- 
light pour'd 
On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees. 
Softer  than  sleep  —  all  things  in  order 
stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  fair, 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind, 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  was 
there 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix. 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonj'x 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea. 
Near  gilded  organ -pipes,  her  iiair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  St.  Cecily ; 
An  angel  look'd  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wounded  spu 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Ausonian 
king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 


THE   PALACE   OF  ART. 


31 


Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail' d, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly  sail'd 
A  summer  fanu'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne  : 
From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus :    one 
hand  grasp' d 
The  mild  bull's  gulden  horn. 

Or  else  flushed  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone  :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Cauca.sian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells 
that  swung, 
Mov'd  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound ; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I 
hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong. 
Beside    him   Shakespeare   bland   and 
mild  ; 
And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasp'd 
his  song, 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  tliere  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest ; 

A  njiilion  wrinkles  carved  his  skin  ; 
A  hundred  winters  snow'  d  upon  his  breast. 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wrouglit,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  bea.st  of  burden  slow, 
Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads  and 
stings  ; 


Here  play'd,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings  ; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or 
bind 
All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure. 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  mau 
declined. 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod  :  and  those  great 
bells 
Began  to  chime.    She  took  her  throne  : 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  colored  flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below  ; 
Plato  the  wise,  andlarge-brow'd  Verulam, 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion 
were 
Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change. 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd 
fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange  : 

Thro'   which  the  lights,    rose,   amber, 
emerald,  blue, 
Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes. 
And  from  her  lips,  as  mom  from  Mem- 
nou,  drew 
Rivere  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone. 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  lier  echo'dsong 
Tlirob  thro'  the  ribbed  stone  ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful 
mirth. 
Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible 
earth. 
Lord  of  the  senses  five  ; 

Communing  with  herself:    "All   these 
are  mine, 
And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
'T  is  one  to  me."     She  —  when  young 
night  divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

Mak ing  sweet  close  of  hisdi'licious  toils  — 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadenis. 
And  pure  nuiutesseuces  of  preciouji  oils 
In  hoflow'd  moons  of  gems, 


32 


THE   PALACE   OF  ART. 


To  mimic  heaven  ;  and  clapt  her  hands 
and  cried, 
"  I  marvel  if  ray  still  delight 
Inthisgi'eathouse  so  royal-rich,  and  wide. 
Be  flatter'd  to  the  height. 

' '  0  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes ! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well ! 

0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  1  dwell ! 

"  0  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 
What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves 

of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

"In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient 
skin. 
They  graze  andwallow,  breedand sleep ; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in. 
And  diives  them  to  the  deep." 

Then  ofthe  moral  instinct  would  she  prate 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 
Ashersby  rightof  full-accomplish"dFate ; 
And  at  the  last  she  said  : 

"  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and 
deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 

1  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 

But  contemplating  all. " 


Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth. 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd :  so  three 
years 
She  prosper'd  :  on  the  fourth  she  fell. 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his 
ears. 
Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

l^est  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  Ijefore  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she   would   think,   where'er  she 
.  turn'd  her  sight 
The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought. 


Wrote  "Mene,  mene,"  and  divided  quite 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 
Fell  on  lier,  from  which  mood  was  born 
Scorn  of  herself ;  again,  fromoutthatmood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

"  What !  isnotthismyplaceofstrength," 
she  said, 
"My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof   the   strong  foundation-stones 
were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory  ? " 

But  in  dark  comers  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes  ;  and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears 
of  blood. 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of 
flame. 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all. 
On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon  she 
came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 
Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my.soul, 
'Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of 
sand  ; 
Left  on  the  .shore  ;  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from 
the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 
Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
Tlie  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Eoll'd  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  piide  had 
curl'd. 
"  No  voice,"  she  shriek'd  in  that  lone 
hall, 
"No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of 
this  world  : 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all ! " 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's 
mouldering  sod, 
Inwrapt  ti'nfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name  ; 


LADY  CLAEA  VERE  DE  VEEE. 


33 


And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair. 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  etei-uity, 
No  comfort  anywhere  ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fear?, 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 
And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime  : 

Shut  upas  in  a  crumblingtomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  otf  slie  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lauds  a  traveller  walking 
slow, 
In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  litth;  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea  ; 

And  knows  ndt  if  it  be  thunder  or  a  sound 
Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  ciy 
Of  great  wild  beasts  ;  then  thinketh,  "I 
have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 

She  howl'd  aloud,  "  I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin. 
And  save  me  lest  I  die  ? " 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished. 

She  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 
"Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  shesaid, 
"  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

"  Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers, 
that  are 
So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown  : 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name. 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine. 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms. 


A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  hundre  1  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  (jueen  of  all  that  is, 

1  cou.d  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love. 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
0,  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies  : 

A  gi'eat  enchantress  you  may  be  ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear  ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall  : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door  : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  hearttogall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse. 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  fix'd  a  vacant  stare. 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  gardener  Adam  and  liis  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'T  is  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets. 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers : 
The  languid  light  of  your  i)n)ud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
Inclowinghealth,  withbouiiillesswtuilth. 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time. 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as 
tliesc. 


34 


THE   MAY   QUEEN. 


"  The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 
You  are  not  one  to  be  desired." 


Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate. 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh  !  teach  the  oqihan-boy  to  read. 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call 

me  early,  mother  dear  ; 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of 

all  the  glad  New-year  ; 
Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the 

maddest  merriest  day  ; 


For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 
I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There 's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say, 

but  none  so  bright  as  mine  ; 
There 's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there 's  Kate 

and  Caroline  : 
But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the 

land  they  say, 
So  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that 

I  sliall  never  wake. 
If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day 

begins  to  break  : 
But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and 

buds  and  garlands  gay, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


THE   MAY   QUEEN. 


35 


*  Yuu  must  wake  and  CiUl  ine  early,  call  ine  early,  mother  clear , 
To-raorrow  '11  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year." 


Ik3  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye 

should  I  see, 
But  Kol)iii  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath 

the  liazel-tree  ? 
lie  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother, 

I  gave  him  yesterday,  — 
Hut  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I 

was  all  in  white, 
And  I  ran  by  hiui  without  speaking,  like 

a  flash  of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care 

not  wha   they  say. 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  Tuother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  tlie  May. 


They  say  he 's  dying  all  for  love,  but  thai 

can  never  be  : 
They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother  — 

what  is  that  to  me  ? 
There  's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  nie 

any  summer  day, 
And  I  'm  to  Ije  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

Little  Effie  .shall  go  with  me  to-morrow 

to  the  gi'een. 
And  you  '11  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see 

me  made  the  Queen  ; 
For  the  shojiherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill 

come  from  far  away. 
And  I  'm  to  Ik-  Qiu-cn  o'  tlie  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  Ije  Queen  o'  the  May. 


36 


THE   MAY   QUEEN. 


The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has 

wov'n  its  wavy  bowers, 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the 

faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  niarsli-inarigold  shines  like 

fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  ilay,  mother, 

1  'm  to  be  Queen-  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother, 

upon  the  meadow-grass. 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to 

brighten  as  they  pass  ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole 

of  the  livelong  day. 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and 

green  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are 

over  all  the  hill, 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill 

merrily  glance  and  play. 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call 

me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-moiTow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all 

the  glad  New-year  : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the 

maddest  merriest  day. 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 

If  you  're  waking  call  me  early,  call  me 

early,  mother  dear. 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the 

glad  New-year. 
It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever 

see, 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould 

and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set  :  he  set  and 

left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time, 

and  all  ray  peace  of  mind  ; 
And  the  New-year 's  coming  up,  mother, 

but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf 

upon  the  tree. 


Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers  ; 

we  had  a  merry  day  ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they 

made  me  Queen  of  May  ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and 

in  the  hazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the 

tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There  's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills  : 
the  frost  is  on  the  pane  : 

I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops 
come  again  : 

I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun 
come  out  on  high  : 

I  longto  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy 

tall  elm -tree, 
And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the 

fallow  lea. 
And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again 

with  summer  o'er  the  wave, 
But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the 

mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the   chancel-casement,  and  upon 

that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early  eai-ly  morning  the  summer 

siin  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm 

upon  the  hill. 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and 

all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother, 
beneath  the  waning  light 

You  '11  never  see  me  more  in  the  long 
gray  fields  at  night ; 

WTien  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  sum- 
mer airs  blow  cool 

On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-gi'ass, 
and  the  bubush  in  the  pool. 

You  '11  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  ])eneath 

the  hawthorn  shade. 
And  you  '11  come  sometimes  and  see  me 

where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall 

hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With   your  feet  above  my  head  in  the 

long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you  '11 

forgive  me  now  ; 
You  '11  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and 

forgive  me  ere  I  go  ; 


CONCLUSION. 


37 


Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let 

your  grief  be  wild. 
You  should  uot  fret  for  me,  mother,  you 

have  another  child. 

If  I  can  I  '11  come  again,  mother,  from 

out  my  resting-place  ; 
Tho'  you  '11  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall 

look  upon  your  face  ; 
Tho'  I  cannot  speak  a  word,    I   shall 

harken  what  you  say. 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you 

think  I  'm  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,   when   I   have 

said  good-night  for  evermore. 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the 

threshold  of  the  door  ; 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my 

grave  be  growing  green  : 
She  '11  be  a  better  child   to   you   than 

ever  1  have  been. 

She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the 

granary  floor  : 
Let  her  take  'em  :  they  are  hers  :  I  shall 

never  garden  more  : 
But  tell  her,  when  1  'm  gone,  to  train 

the  rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor- window  and  the   box 

of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother  :  call  me  be- 
fore the  day  is  born. 

All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at 
morn  ; 

But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the 
glad  New-year, 

So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me 
early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION. 

1  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet 
alive  1  am  ; 

.Vnd  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the 
bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morn- 
ing of  the  year  ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and 
now  the  violet 's  here. 

0  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes 

beneath  the  skies. 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice 

to  me  that  cannot  rise. 


And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,"  and  all 

the  flowers  that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me 

that  long  to  go. 

It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to 

leave  the  blessed  sun. 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and 

yet  His  will  be  done  I 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before 

1  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has 

told  me  words  of  peace. 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on 

his  silver  hair  ! 
And   blessings   on  his  whole  life  long, 

until  he  meet  me  there  ! 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on 

his  silver  head  ! 
A  thousand  times  I   blest   him,  as  he 
knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he 

show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'   my  lamp  was  lighted  late, 

there  's  One  will  let  me  in  : 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again, 

if  that  could  be. 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that 

died  for  me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or 

the  death-watch  beat. 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the 

night  and  morning  meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put 

your  hand  in  mine. 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will 

tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard 

the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and 

the  dark  was  over  all ; 
The  trees  began   to  whisper,   and  the 

wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard 

them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you 

and  Effie  dear ; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no 

longer  here  ; 
With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both, 

and  so  I  felt  resign'd, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music 

on  the  wind. 


38 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd 

in  my  bed. 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me  — 

I  know  not  what  was  said  ; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took 

hokl  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  mnsic 

on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping  ;  and  I  said,  "  It 's 

not  for  them  :  it's  mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought, 

I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside 

the  window-bars. 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven 

and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     1  trust 

it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed   music  went  that  way  my 

soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go 

to-day. 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  1 

am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell 

him  not  to  fret ; 
There  's  many  a  worthier  than  I,  would 

make  him  happy  yet. 
If  had  lived — I  cannot  tell  —  I  might 

have  been  his  wife  ; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be, 

with  my  desire  of  life. 

0  look  !   the   sun  begins   to  rise,    the 

heavens  are  in  a  glow  ; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all 

of  them  I  know. 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and 

there  his  light  may  shine  — 
Wihl  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands 

than  mine. 

0  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that 

ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be 

beyond  the  sun- — 
For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just 

souls  and  true  — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ? 

why  make  we  such  ado  ? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed 

home  — 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you 

and  Effie  come  — 


To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie 

upon  your  breast  — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE   LOTOS-EATERS. 

"  Courage  !  "    he   said,   and    pointed 

toward  the  land, 
"  This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shore- 
ward soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  laml, 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 

swoon. 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary 

dream. 
Full-faced  above   the  valley  stood  the 

moon  ; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender 

stream 
Along  the  cliff"  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall 

did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams !  some,  like  a  downward 

smoke, 
Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did 

go; 
And    some    thro'   wavering  lights   and 

shadows  broke. 
Rolling  a  slumbroTis  sheet  of  foam  below. 
They  saw  the  gleaming  river   seaward 

flow 
From    the   inner  land :    far  off",    three 

mountain -tops. 
Three  silent  jiinnacles  of  aged  snow, 
Stood  simset-flush'd  :   and,  dew'd  with 

showery  drops, 
Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the 

woven  copse. 

The  channed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 
In  the  red  West  :  thro'  mountain  clefts 

the  dale 
AVas  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding 

vale 
And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale  ; 
A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd 

the  same  ! 
And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 
The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters 


CHORIC   SONG. 


39 


'  To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast,  — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest." 


Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted 

stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  tliey 

gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far  far  away  did  sceia  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  aUen  shores  ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake. 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the 

grave  ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake. 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 

did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellowsand. 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore  ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father-land, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave  ;  but  ever- 
more 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,   "We  will  return 

no  more  "  ; 
And  all  at  once  they  .sang,   "Our  island 

home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave  ;  we  will  no  longer 
roam," 


CHORIC  SONG. 


There  is  sweet  music  here  thatsofterfalls 
Than  ])etals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between 

walls 
Of  .shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass  ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies. 
Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes  ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from 

the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mos.ses  dee.\>. 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creej), 
And  in  the  stream  the  long- leaved  flowers 

weep. 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy 

hangs  in  sleep. 


Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness, 
An  (i  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress. 
While  all. things   else   have   rest   from 

weariness  ? 
All    things   have  rest :   why  should  we 

toil  aloiK!, 
We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 


40 


CHORIC   SONG. 


And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown  : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy 

balm" ; 
Nor  harken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 
"There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  " 
Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 

crown  of  things  ? 


Lo  !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 
The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed  ;  and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 
Lo  !  swceten'd  with  the  summer  light, 
The    full -juiced    apple,    waxing    over- 
mellow. 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 
All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 
The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 
Eipens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no 

toil, 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 


Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life  ;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 
Let  us  alone.    Time  diiveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.    What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.    What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward 

the  grave 
In  silence  ;  ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death, 

or  dreamful  ease. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward 

stream. 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 
To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber 

light, 


Which  will  not  leave  the  myirh-bush  on 

the  height ; 
To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech  ; 
Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 
To  watch  thecri.spingrippleson  the  beach, 
Andtendercurving  lines  of  creamy  spraj' ; 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melan- 
choly ; 
To   muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in 

memory, 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass. 
Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an 
urn  of  brass  ! 


Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives. 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  wann   tears  :   but   all  hath 

suffer' d  change  ; 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths 

are  cold  : 
Our  sons  inherit  us :  our  looksare  strange : 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble 

joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel 

sings 
Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten 

things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle  ? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 
'T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
Long  labor  unto  aged  breath. 
Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many 

wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the 

pilot-stars. 


But,  propton  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 
How  sweet  (while  warm   airs   lull  us, 

blowing  lowly) 
With  half-dropt  eyelids  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing 

slowly 
His  waters  from  the  piirple  hill  — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  tliick-twined 


A   DREAM    OF    FAIR   WOMEN. 


41 


To  watch  the  emerald-color'd  water  falling 
Thro'   mauy   a  wov'n   acanthus-wreath 

divine  ! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling 

brine, 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out 

beneath  the  pine. 


The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak  : 
The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek  : 
All   day  the  wind  breathes  low   with 

mellower  tone  : 
Thro'  eveiy  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the 

yellow  Lotus-dust  is  blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of 

motion  we, 
Roll'd  to  starboard,  roU'd  to  larboard, 

when  the  surge  was  seething  free. 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  liis 

foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with 

an  equal  mind. 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie 

reclined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless 

of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the 

bolts  are  hurl'd 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the 

clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with 

the  gleaming  world  : 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over 

wasted  lands. 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earth- 
quake,  roaring  deeps  and  fiery 

sands. 
Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and 

sinking  .ships,  and  praj'ing  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred 

in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lam  entation  and  an  ancient 

tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  talc  of  little  meaning  tho'  the 

words  are  strong ; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that 

cleave  the  soil. 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with 

enduring  toil. 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and 

wine  and  oil ; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer  —  some, 

't  is  whisper'd  —  down  in  hell 
SuflFer  eniUess  anguish,  others  in  Elysian 

valleys  dwell, 


Resting  weary  limbs  ft'i,  last  on  beds  of 

asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet 

than  toil,  the  shore 
Tlian  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind 

and  wave  and  oar  ; 
0  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not 

wander  more. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN". 

I  READ,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their 
shade, 
*'The  Legend  of  Good  Women,"  long 
ago 
Sung  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who 
made 
His  music  heard  below  ; 

Dan   Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose    • 
sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious   bursts, 
that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
\Vith  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 
Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong 
gales 
Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho' 
my  heart, 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.     In 
every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 
Beaiity  and  anguish  walkinghand  in  hand 

The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 
Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burn- 
ing stars. 
And  I  heard  .sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and 
wrong, 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars  ; 

And  clattering  flints  batter'd  with  clang- 
ing hoc'fs  : 
And  I  saw  crowds  in  column'd  sanc- 
tuaries ; 
And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and 
on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold  ;  heroes  tall 
Dislodging  pinnacle  and  para])et 


i2 


A   DREAM   OF   FAIR  WOMEN. 


-T^flfej^ 


'  O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  wiU  not  wander  more.' 


Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall ; 
Lances  in  ambush  set ; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro"  with 
heated  blasts 
That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues 
of  fire  ; 
White  surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails  and 
masts, 
And  ever  climbing  higher  ; 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen 
plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers 
woes. 


Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron 
grates. 
And  hushed  seraglios. 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when 
to  land 
Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self- 
same way, 
Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level 
sand, 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in  pain, 
Resolved  on  noble  things,  and  strove 
to  speak, 


A  DREAM   OF   FAIR   WOMEN. 


43 


As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along 
the  brain, 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 
A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 

That  bore  a  lady  from  a  Icaguer'd  town  ; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how, 

All  those  sharp  fancies,  by  down-lapsing 
thought 
Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges, 
and  did  creep 
RoU'd  on  each  other,  rounded,  smooth'd, 
and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methought  that  I  hadwander'dfar 
In  an  old  wood  :  fresh-wash'd  in 
coolest  dew 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  stedfast  blue. 

Enormouselmtree-bolesdid  stoop  andlean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  under- 
neath 
Their  broad   curved  branches,   fledged 
with  clearest  green. 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey 
done. 
And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the 
twilight  plain, 
Half-fall'ji  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun. 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air. 
Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill ; 

Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.    Growths  of  jasmine 
turn'd 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to 
tree. 
And  at  the  root  thro'  lush  green  grasses 
burn'd 
The  red  anemone. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I 
knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid 
dawn 
On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks 
drench'd  in  dew, 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 


The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 
Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  soul  and 
frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  under-tone 
Thrill'd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  un- 
blissful  clime, 
"  Pass  freely  thro'  :  the  wood  is  all  thine 
own, 
Until  the  end  of  time." 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call. 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  stand- 
ing there  ; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall. 
And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  sur- 
prise 
Froze  my  swift  speech  :  she  turning 
on  my  face 
The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes. 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

"  I  had  great  beauty  :  ask  thou  not  my 
name  : 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 
Many  drew  swords  and  died.     Where'er 
I  came 
I  brought  calamity." 

"  No  marvel,  sovereign  lady  :  in  fair  field 
Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly 
died," 

I  answer'd  free  ;  and  turning  I  appeal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks 
averse, 
To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature 
draws  ; 
"My   youth,"  she  said,    "was  blasted 
with  a  curse  : 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

"I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 
Which  yet  to  name  my  spirit  loathes 
and  fears  : 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face  ; 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"Still  strove  to  speak  :   my  voice  was 
thick  with  sighs 
As  in  a  dream.   Dimly  I  could  descry 
The    stem    black-bearded    kings    with 
wolfi.sh  eyes. 
Waiting  to  see  me  die. 


44 


A   DREAM   OF   FAIR  WOMEN. 


"The  high  mast^flicker'd  as  they  lay 

afloat  ; 
The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver' d,  and 

the  shore  ; 
The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  victim's 

throat ; 
Touch'd  ;  and  I  knew  no  more." 

Wliereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow  : 
"I  would  the  white   cold  heavy- 
plunging  foam, 
Whirl'd  by  the  wind,  had  roll'd  me  deep 
below, 
Then  when  I  left  my  home." 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the  silence 
drear, 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping 
sea  : 
Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  "Come 
here. 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise. 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  un- 
roU'd  ; 
A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold 
black  eyes. 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,   flashing   forth  a  haughty  smile, 
began  : 
"  I  govern'd  men  by  change,  anc'  so 
I  sway'd 
All  moods.    'T  is  long  since  I  have  seen 
a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

"  The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  huniorebbandflow. 

I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood  : 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

"Nay  —  yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could 
not  bend 
One  will ;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with 
mine  eye 
That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar.    Prythee, 
friend. 
Where  is  Mark  Antony  ? 

"  The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode 
sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck  :  we  sat  as  God 
by  God  : 
The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 


"We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep, 
and  lit 
Lamps  which  outbum'd  Canopus. 
0  my  life 
In  Egypt !    0  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

"And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from 
war's  alanns. 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms. 

Contented  there  to  die  ! 

"And  there  he  died  :  and  when  I  heard 
my  name 
Sigh'd  forth  with  life  I  would  not 
brook  my  fear 
Of  the  other  :  with  a  worm  I  balk'd  his 
fame. 
What  else  was  left  ?  look  here  !  " 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and 
half 
The  polish'd  argent  of  her  breast  to 
sight 
Laid  bare.     Thereto  she  pointed  with  a 
laugh. 
Showing  the  aspick's  bite.) 

"1  died  a  Queen.     The  Roman  soldier 
found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my 
brows, 
A   name   for   ever  !  —  lying  robed   and 
crown'd. 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 

Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest  range 
Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down 
and  glance 
From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all 
change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for 
delight ; 
Because  with  sudden  motion  from 
the  ground 
She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fill'd 
with  light 
The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest 
darts  ; 
As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning 
rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty 
hearts 
Of  captains  and  of  kings. 


A  DREAM   OF   FAIR  WOMEN. 


45 


Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.    Then  I  heard 
A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro' 
the  lawn, 
And  singing   clearer  than  the  crested 
bird, 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

"  The  torrent  brooks  of  hallovv'd  Israel 
From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late 
and  soon, 
Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro'  the 
dell, 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

''  The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with 
beams  divine  : 
All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall 
the  dell 
With  spires  of  silver  shine." 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sunshine 
laves 
The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  thro' 
tlie  door 
Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd 
and  tied 
To  where  he  stands,  — so  stood  I, 
when  that  flow 
Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father's  vow  ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 
A  maiden  pure  ;  as  when  she  went 
along 
From  Mizpeh's  tower'd  gate  with  wel- 
come light, 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

Aly  words  leapt  forth  :  "  Heaven  heads 
the  count  of  crimes 
With  that  wild  oath."   She  render'd 
answer  high  : 
"  Not  so,  nor  once  alone  ;   a  thousand 
times 
I  would  be  bom  and  die. 

"  Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant, 

whose  root 
Creeps  to   the  garden  water-pipes 

beneath, 
Feeding  the  flower  ;  but  ere  my  flower  to 

Chalged,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 


"My  God,  my  land,  my  father  —  these 
did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature 
gave, 
Lower'd  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  gi-ave. 

"  And  I  went  mourning,  'No  fair  Hebrew 
boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame 
among 
The  Hebrewmothers ' — emptied  ofalljoy, 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

' '  Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below. 
Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal- 
bower, 
The  valleys  of  gi-ape-loaded  vines  that 
glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

"The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us. 
Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his 
den  ; 
We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by 
one, 
Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen, 

' '  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 
flame. 
And  thunder  on  theeverlastinghills. 
1  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief 
became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

"When  the  next  moon  was  roll'd  into 
the  sky. 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd 
my  desire. 
How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

"  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to 
dwell. 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's 
will  ; 
Because  the  kiss  he  ^ave  me,  ere  I  fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

"Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 
Hew'd  Amnion,  hip  and  thigh,  from 
Aroer 

On  Anion  unto  Minneth."    Here  her  face 
Glow'd,  as  I  look'd  at  her. 


46 


MARGARET. 


Slie  lock'd  her  lip*  she  left  me  where 
I  stood  : 
"Glory  to  God,"  she  sang,  and  past 
afar, 
Thriddingthe  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood. 
Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively, 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans 
his  liead. 
When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  sud- 
denly. 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

"Alas  !  alas  !  "  alow  voice,  full  of  care, 
Murmur'd  beside  me  :   ' '  Turn  and 
look  on  me  : 
I   am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call 
fair. 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"  Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse 
and  poor  ! 
0  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the 
light ! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 
Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night." 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and 
trust : 
To  whom  the  Egyptian:  "0,  you 
tamely  died  ! 
You  should  liave  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist, 
and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro'  her  side." 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's 
creeping  beams, 
Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the 
mystery 
Of  folded   sleep.     The   captain   of  my 
dreams 
Ruled  in  tlie  eastern  sky. 

Mom  broaden'd  on  the  borders  ol    lUC 
dark. 
Ere  1  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her 
last  trance 
Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of 
Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France  ; 

Or  her,  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish 
Death, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about 
her  kin£, 


Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy 
breath, 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

N9  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 
Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  tlie 
hidden  ore 
That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from 
sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.     With  what 
dull  jiain 
Compass'd,  how  eagerly  I  sought  to 
strike 
Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again  ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been 
blest, 
Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past 
years, 
In  j^earnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  signs  or  groans  or  tears  ; 

Because  all  words,  tho'  cuU'd  with  choicest 
art, 

Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet. 
Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 

Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


MARGARET. 


0  SWEET  pale  Margaret, 
0  rare  pale  ^largaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower  ? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 

Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale, 

Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-Hower  ? 
From  tlie  westward-winding  flood. 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have 
won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak. 
That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek, 
Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound. 

Like  the  tender  amber  round, 
Which  the  moon  about  her  soreadeth, 
iloving  thro'  a  fleecy  night.      ▼" 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


47 


You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  th6  fight. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright : 

Lull'd  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow  light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 


Wliat  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning  stars 
The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro'  his  prison  bars  ? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 
The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  falling  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true 
heart, 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well  ? 


A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade. 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine. 
But  more  human  in  your  moods. 

Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch'd  with  a  somewhat  darker  hue. 

And  less  aerially  blue, 

But  ever  trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woful  sympathies. 


0  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
0  rare  pale  Margaret, 
Come  down,  come  downi,  and  hear  me 

speak  : 
Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek  : 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set, 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 
And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 
Moving  in  the  leavy  beech. 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady. 

Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  across  the  lawn. 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves. 
Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes  dawn 
Upon  me  thro'  the  jasmine-leaves. 


THE   BLACKBIRD. 

0  BLACKBIRD  !  sing  me  something  well  : 
WhUe  all  the  neighbors   shoot   thee 

round, 
1  keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful  ground. 

Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat  and  dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine  j  the  range  of  lawn  and  park  : 
The  unnetted  black-hearts  ripen  dark. 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho'  I  spared  thee  all  the  spring. 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still. 
With  that  cold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  summer  jenneting. 

A  golden  bill  !  the  silver  tongue, 
Cold  February  loved,  is  dry  : 
Pienty  corrupts  the  melody 

That  made  thee  famous  once,  when  young : 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares. 
Now  thy  flute-notes  are  changed  to 

coarse, 
I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning  !  he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue. 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are  new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing  : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  die  ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily. 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still  :  he  doth  not  move  : 
He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 
He  hath  no  other  life  above. 
He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love, 
And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go  ; 
So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  you  have  .seen  with  us, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 


48 


TO   J.    S. 


He  froth'd  his  biimpers  to  the  brim  ; 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

1  've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest. 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he  '11  be  dead  before. 

Everj"^  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my 
friend, 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold, 
my  friend. 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chii-ps  :  the  light  bums  low  : 
'T  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we  '11  dearly  rue  for  you  : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  shaqi  and  thin. 
Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Clo.se  up  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There 's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my 
friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


TO   J.    S. 

The  wind,  that  beats  themountain,  blows 
More  softly  round  the  open  wold. 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
"That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 
Or  else  1  had  not  dared  to  flow 

In  these  words  toward  j'ou,  and  invade 
Even  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 


'T  is  strange  that  those  we  lean  on  most, 
Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs  are 
nursed, 

Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost  : 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  us  love.     Something  to  love 
He  lends  us ;  but,  when  loveisgrown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.     Alas  ! 

In  grief  I  am  not  all  unlearn'd  ; 
Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death  did 
pass; 

One  went,  who  never  hath  return'd. 

He  will  not  smile  —  not  speak  to  me 
Once  more.     Two  years  his  chair  is 
seen 

Empty  before  us.     That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  I  had  not  been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer  ;  for  this  star 
Rose  with  you  thro'  a  little  are 

Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander'd  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 

I  knew  your  brother  :  his  mute  dust 
I  honor  and  his  living  worth  : 

A  man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 
Was  never  bom  into  the  earth. 

I  have  not  look'd  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear  soul  hath  fall'n  asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I  : 
I  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho'  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
Drawn   from   the   spirit   thro'    the 
brain, 
I  will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

"Weep,  weeping  duUs  the  inward 
pain." 

Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.     Let  her  will 

Be  done  —  to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I  will  not  say,  "  God's  ordinance 

Of  Death  is  blown  in  every  wind  " ; 

For  that  is  not  a  common  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 


OF   OLD    SAT   FREEDOM. 


49 


That  broods  above  the  fallen  sxin, 

And  dwells  in  heayen  half  the  night. 

Vain  solace  !  Memory  standing  near 
Cast  down  her  eyes,  and  in  her  throat 

Her  voice  seem'd  distant,  and  a  tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I  wrote. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what.  In  truth, 
How  should  I  soothe  you  anyway, 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 
Yet  something  I  did  wish  to  say  : 

For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me  : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true 
breast 

Bleedeth  for  both  ;  yet  it  may  be 
That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would  make 
Grief  more.     T  were  better  I  should 
cease 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 

The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in  peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace  : 
Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul. 

While  the  stars  bum,  the  moons  increase. 
And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 

Nothing    comes    to    thee    new  or 
strange. 
Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet  ; 

Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  of  change. 


You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease. 
Within  this  region  I  subsist. 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist. 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas  ? 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till. 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose. 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or 
foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will  ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  jn.st  and  old  renown, 
Where    Freedom    broadens    slowly 
flown 

From  precedent  to  precedent : 


Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought. 
The    strength    of    some     diffusive 
thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute  ; 

Tho'  Power  should  make  from  land  to  land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great  — 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  almost  choke  with  golden  sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth. 
Wild  wind  !     I  seek  a  warmer  sky. 
And  1  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights. 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet : 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights  : 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 

Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind. 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept   she  down  thro'   town  and 
field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 

The  fulness  of  her  face  — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down. 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks. 
And  King-like,  wears  the  crown  : 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears  ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 
Make  bright  our  days  and  light  ou 
dreams, 

Tuniing  to  scorn  with  lii)s  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  I 


50 


LOVE   THOU   THY   LAND. 


Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
"Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed  poles. 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time, 
Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings. 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for 
day, 

Tho'  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 

Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds  ; 

But  let  her  herald.  Reverence,  fly 

Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch   what  main  -  currents  draw  the 
years  : 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain  : 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  : 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 
Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise  : 
It  gi'ows  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch  : 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw  ; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term  ; 

Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but  firm  : 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law  ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 
With   Life,    that,    working  strongly, 

binds  — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds. 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm. 
And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long. 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong. 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 


We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees. 
All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingi'oove  itself  with  that,  wliich  flies, 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact, 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom  — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  school ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule. 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour. 
But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark  ; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  gi'eat  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd, 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind  ; 

A  wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires. 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head  ; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

0  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war  — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud. 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes. 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close, 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood  ; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and  guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 

Would  pace  the  troubled  land,  like  Peace  ; 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay. 
Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and  word, 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword, 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away  — 


THE  GOOSE. 


51 


Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that  broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes  : 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise 

Would  strike,  and  fiiinly,  and  one  stroke : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day, 
As  we  bear  blossoms  of  the  dead  ; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


.      THE  GOOSE. 

I  KNEW  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor, 
Her  rags  scarce  held  together  ; 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door. 
And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm. 
He  utter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 

"  Here,  takethegoose,andkeepyou  warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  season." 

She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg, 
A  goose  —  't  was  no  great  matter. 

The  goose  let  fall  a  golden  egg 
With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the  pelf. 
And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors  ; 

And  bless'd  herself,  and  cursed  herself. 
And  rested  from  her  labors. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft. 
Grew  plump  and  able-bodied  ; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doffd. 
The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid, 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder  : 


But  ah  !  the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clutter'd  here,  it  chuckled  there  ; 

It  stirr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle  : 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 

"  A  quinsy  choke.thy  ctfrsed  note  !  " 
Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 

"Go,  takethegoose,  and  wring  her  throat, 
I  will  not  bear  it  longer." 

Then  yelp'd  the  cur,  and  yawl'd  the  cat ; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer. 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that. 

And  fill'd  the  house  with  clamor. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 
They  flounder'd  all  together, 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  weather  : 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm. 
He  utter'd  words  of  scorning  ; 

"So  k.eep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  morning." 

The  wild  wind  rang  from  park  and  plain, 
And  round  the  attics  rumbled. 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again. 
And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled . 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off",  her  gown  blew  up. 
And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder  : 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger. 

Quoth  she,  "The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger  !  " 


52 


MORTE   D  ARTHUR. 


ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


(published  1842. 


THE  EPIC. 

At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas- 
eve,  — 

The  game  of  forfeits  done  —  the  girls  all 
kiss'd 

Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  pastaway — 

The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard 
Hall, 

The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail- 
bowl. 

Then  half-way  ebb'd  :  and  there  we  held 
a  talk. 

How  all  the  old  honor  had  from  Christ- 
mas gone. 

Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some  odd 
games 

Insomeoddnookslikethis ;  till  I,  tired  out 

With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the 
pond, 

Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the 
outer  edge, 

I  bump'd  the  ice  into  three  several  stars, 

Fell  in  a  doze  ;  and  half-awake  I  heard 

The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps. 

Now  harping  on  the  church-commission- 
ers, 

Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism  ; 

Until  1  woke,  and  found  him  settled  down 

Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 

Right  thro'  the  world,  "at  home  was 
little  left. 

And  none  abroad  :  there  was  no  anchor, 
none, 

To  hold  by."  Francis,  laughing,  clapt 
his  hand 

On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  "  1  hold  by 
him." 

"And  I,"  quoth  Everard,  "by the  was- 
sail-bowl." 

"Why  ye.s,"  I  said,  "we  knew  your 
gift  that  way 

At  college  :  but  another  which  you  had, 

I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then,) 

What  came  of  that?"  "You  know," 
said  Frank,  "  he  burnt 

His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve 
books " — 

And  then  to  me  demanding  why  ?  "0, 
sir. 


He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said, 

or  else 
Something  so  said  't  was  nothing  —  that 

a  truth 
Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the  day  : 
God  knows:  he  hasamintof  reasons:  ask. 
It  pleased  me  well  enough."  "Nay,  nay," 

said  Hall, 
' '  Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  times  ? 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mastodon, 
Nor  we  those  times  ;  and  why  should  any 

man 
Remodel  models  ?  these  twelve  books  of 

mine 
Were  faint   Homeric  echoes,    nothing- 
worth. 
Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better  burnt." 

"But  I," 
Said  Francis,  "  pick'd  the  eleventh  from 

this  hearth, 
And  have  it :  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will 

come. 
I  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes." 
He  laugh'd,  and  I,  thoiigh  sleepy,  like  a 

horse 
That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick'd  my 

ears  ; 
For  I  remember'd  Everard's  college  fame 
When  we  were  Freshmen  :  then  at  my 

request 
He  brought  it ;  and  the  poet  little  urged, 
But  with  some  prelude  of  disparagement, 
Read,  mouthingout  hishollow  oesandaes, 
Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE   D' ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roU'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea  ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonness  about  their  Lord, 
King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep. 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  kniglits, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  iield, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  baireu  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Oueau,  and  on  one 


MORTE   D  ARTHUR. 


53 


Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
*'  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such 

a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  nevermore,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camdot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  ]ieople  which- 1  made,  — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 

again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will 

be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  remem- 

berest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an 

arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 
Holding  the  sword,  —  and  how  I  row'd 

across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 

king: 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not  :  take  P'xcalibur, 
And  Hing  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring 

me  word." 
To  liiin  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  sec,  and  lightly  bring  thee 

word." 
So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 

stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind 

.sang 
Shrill,  cliill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He, 

stepping  down 


Byzig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 
There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excali- 
bur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawingit,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the 

hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

sparks. 
Myriads  of  topaz -lights,  and  jacinth  -work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he 

stood. 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind. 
In  act  to  throw  :  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags. 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which 

I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast 

heard  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 

"I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds. 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale  : 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy 

name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  (juickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 

word." 
Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere. 
Counting    the   dewy   pebbles,    fix'd    in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

.smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud. 
*'  And  if  indeed  I  cast  tln<  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 


54 


MOKTE   D'AllTHUK. 


■'  An  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake 
Clothed  in  white  samite." 


Should  thus  belosttbreverfromtheearth, 

Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 
many  men. 

What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were 
done  ? 

What  harm,  undone  ?  deep  harm  to  dis- 
obey, 

Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 

Were  itwellto  obey  then,  if  akingdemand 

An  act  unpiolitable,  against  himself? 


The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord  . 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this 

kej)t. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings. 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  'King Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 


MOKTE   d' ARTHUR, 


55 


Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  af- 

tertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost." 
So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  con- 
ceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 

heavily  : 
' '  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast 

heard  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 

And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 

in  wrath  : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted !  Woe  is  me ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Ijaid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 

hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  dut_y  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee 

hence  : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.    The 

great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon. 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd 

in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  mom, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  : 


But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 

mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 
Then   spoke    King  Arthur,    drawing 
thicker  breath  : 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 
or  seen  ? " 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the 

gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  neversaw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Theji  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheel- 
ing him  ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful. 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere." 
Andanswer  made  KingArthur,  breath- 
ing hard  : 
"  My  end  draws  nigh  ;  't  is  time  that  I 

were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 

weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 
die." 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 
rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  lookingwistfully with wideblue eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words. 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one 

knee. 
O'er  botli  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 

hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 
tombs. 
But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted 
hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  hia 
bed 


w 


56 


MORTE   D  ARTHUR. 


When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd 

the  King, 
Muttering   and   murmuring  at  his  ear, 

"  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  aud  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as 

he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him  like 

a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 
Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 


Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stem, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream 

—  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  —  and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 
Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in 

the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.    There  those 

three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And   loosed  the   shatter'd   casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  hisbrow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  :  for  all  his  face 

was  white 


And   colorless,   and   like  the  wither'd 

moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east  ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  drops 
Of  onset ;   and  the  light  and  lustrous 

curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
Highfrom  the  dais-throne — were  parch' d 

with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the   knightly  growth   that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  colunm  lay  the  King  ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest. 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot   thro'   the   lists    at   Camelot,  and 

cliarged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 
Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere, 
' '  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I 

go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are 

dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  round  table  is  dis- 

sol'fed 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  1,  the  last,  go  forth  conipanionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 

minds." 
And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the 

barge  : 
"  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new. 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 
Comfort  thyself :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but 

thou. 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  agaiTi. 


MORTE   D  ARTHUR. 


57 


"  All  the  (ieck:>  were  dcii->c  witii  stately  forms, 
Black-stoled,  blaclchooded.  like  a  dream  — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold." 


Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are  wrought 

by  prayer 
Than  tliis  world  dream.s  of.    Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 

goats 
That  nourish  ablind  life  within  the  brain, 


If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call 

them  friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 

God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long 

way 


58 


THE   GAEDENER'S   DAUGHTER;   OR,   THE   PICTURES. 


With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go  — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep  -  meadow'd,    happy,  fair  with  or- 
chard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  sum- 
mer sea. 
Where  1  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 
wound." 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 
sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death. 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 

the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 

of  dawn. 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light, 
that  long 

Had  wink'd  and  threaten'd  darkness, 
flared  and  fell  : 

At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with 
sound. 

And  waked  with  silence,  grunted 
"  Good  !  "  but  we 

Sat  rapt :  it  was  the  tone  with  which  he 
read  — 

Perhaps  some  modem  touches  here  and 
there 

Redeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  nothing- 
ness— 

Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized  his 
work  ; 

I  know  not :  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said, 

The  cock  crew  loud  ;  as  at  that  time  of 
year 

The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn  : 

Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a  man  ill- 
used, 

"  There  now  —  that 's  nothing  !  "  drew 
a  little  back. 

And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoulder'd 

log, 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue  : 
And  so  to  bed  ;  where  yet  in  sleep  I  seem'd 
To  sail  with  Arthurunder  loosningshores, 
Point  after  point ;  till  on  to  dawn,  when 

dreams 


Begin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day, 
To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a 

crowd. 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  forward, 

bore 
King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port ;  and  allthepeople  cried, 
"  Arthur  is  come  again  :  he  cannot  die." 
Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills  be- 
hind 
Repeated —  "Come  again,  and  thrice  as 

fair"  ; 
And,   further  inland,  voices  echoed  — 

"  Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be 

no  more." 
At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal. 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard 

indeed 
The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the  Christ- 
mas morn. 


THE    GARDENER'S     DAUGHTER; 
OR,  THE  PICTURES. 

This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day, 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  Gardener's  Daughter ;  land  he. 
Brothers  in  Art ;  a  friendship  so  complete 
Portion'd  in  halves  between  us,  that  we 

grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Hercules ; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of  breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love,  and 

draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ'd  up  and  closed  in  little ;  — Juliet, 

she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit,  —  0,  she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless 

moons. 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing  !     Know  you 

not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love. 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 
Empire   for  life  ?    but  Eustace  painted 

her. 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then, 
"  When  will  you  paint  like  this  ?  "  and  I 

replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half  in 

jest,) 


THE   gardener's   DAUGHTER;  OR,   THE   PICTURES. 


59 


"  *T  is  not  your  work,  but  Love's.    Love, 

unperceived, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all. 
Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you,  made 

those  eyes 
Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that 

hair 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front  of 

March." 
And  Juliet  answer'd  laughing,  "  Go  and 

see 
The  Gardener's  daughter  :  trust  me,  after 

that. 
You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  master- 
piece." 
And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we 

went. 
Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor 

quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells  ; 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you 

hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock  ; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow  broad 

stream. 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the 

oar. 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a  bridge 
Crown'd  with  the  minster-towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are  dewy-fresh,  browsed  by  deep-udder'd 

kine, 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers  low, 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmurous 

wings. 
In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in  her- 
self, 
Grew,  seldom  seen  :  not  less  among  us 

lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.     Who  had  not 

heard 
Of    Rose,    the     Gardener's    daughter? 

Where  was  he. 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in  grief. 
That,  having  seen,  forgot  ?  The  common 

mouth. 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of 

her 
Grew  oratory.     Such  b,  lord  is  Love, 
And  Beauty  such  a  mistress  of  the  world. 
And  if  I  said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  images. 


Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 
I  look'd  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her  name 
My  heart  was  like  a  prophet  to  my  heart. 
And  told  me  I  should  love.     A  crowd  of 

hopes, 
That   sought   to   sow   themselves   like 

winged  seeds. 
Born  out  of  everything  I  heard  and  saw, 
Flutter'd  about  my  senses  and  my  soul ; 
And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of 

balm 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the  air 
Of   Life   delicious,   and    all    kinds  of 

thought. 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than  the 

dream 
Dream'd  by  a  happy  man,  when  the  dark 

East, 
Unseen,    is   brightening   to   his   bridal 

mom. 
And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory  folds 
For  ever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see  her.     All  the  land  in   flowery 

squares, 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind. 
Smelt  of  the   coming  summer,  as  one 

large  cloud 
Drew  downward  :  but  all  else  of  Heaven 

was  pure 
Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge  to 

verge, 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel. 

And  now. 
As  tho'  't  were  yesterday,  as  tho'  it  were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  mom  with  all 

its  sound, 
{For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life 

of  these,) 
Rings  in  mine  ears.     The  steer  forgot  to 

graze. 
And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the  path- 

waj',  stood. 
Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor  field, 
And  lowing  to  his  fellows.     From  the 

woods 
Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 
The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes 

for  joy, 
But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  near'd 
His  happy  home,  the  ground.     To  left 

and  right, 
The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills  ; 
The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm  ; 
The  redcap  whistled ;  and  the  nightingale 
Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of  (lay. 
And  Eustace  tum'd,  and  smiling  said 

to  me, 


60 


THE   gardener's   DAUGHTER;   OR,   THE   PICTURES. 


"  Hear  how  the  bushes  echo  !  by  my  life, 
These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.    Think 

you  they  sing 
Like  jioets,  from  the  vanity  of  song  ? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing  ? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for 

what  they  have  ? " 
And  i  made  answer,  ' '  Were  there  noth- 
ing else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only 

love. 
That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for 

praise." 
Lightly  he  laugh' d,  as  one  that  read 

my  thought, 
And  on  we  went ;  but  ere  an  hour  had 

pass'd, 
We  reach'd  a  meadow  slanting  to  the 

North  ; 
Down  which  a  well-worn  pathway  courted 

us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge  ; 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  walk 
Thro'     crowded    lilac  -  ambush    trimly 

pruned  ; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  per- 
fume, blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 
The  garden  stretches  southward.    In  the 

midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers  of 

shade. 
The  garden-glasses  shone,  and  momently 
The    twinkling    laurel  scatter'd   silver 

lights. 
"  Eustace,"  I  said,  "this  wonder  keeps 

the  house." 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterwards 
He  cried,   "  Look  !   look  !  "     Before  he 

ceased  I  turn'd. 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheldher  there. 
For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern 

rose, 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale 

had  caught, 
And  blown  across  the  walk.     One  ann 

aloft  — 
Gown'd  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the 

shape  — 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood. 
A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Pour'd  on  one  side :  the  shadow  of  the 

flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist  — 
Ah,  happy  shade  —  and  still  went  waver- 
ing down, 


But,  ere  it  touch'd  a  foot,  that  might  have 

danced 
The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt, 
And  mix'd  with  shadows  of  the  common 

ground  ! 
But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and 

sunn'd 
Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe  bloom, 
And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her 

lips, 
And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a 

breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.     Half  light,  half 

shade. 
She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man 

young. 
So  rapt,  we  near'd  the  house  ;  but  she, 

a  Rose 
In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragi-ant  toil, 
Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  ten- 
dance turn'd 
Into  the  world  without ;  till  close  at  hand, 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  intent, 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that 

air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her  : 

"Ah,  one  rose, 
One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fail  fingers 

cull'd, 
Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  press'd  on 

lips 
Less  exquisite  than  thine." 

She  look'd  :  but  all 
Suffused  with   blushes  —  neither   self- 

possess'd 
Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and 

that, 
Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet  —  paused, 
And  di'opt  the  branch  she  held,  and  turn- 
ing, wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr'd  her 

lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer 

came. 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it, 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue- 
like. 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day. 
Saw  her  no  more,  altho'  I  linger'd  there 
TiU  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love's  white 

star 
Beam'd  thro'  the  thicken'd  cedar  in  the 

dusk. 
So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong 

way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 


THE  GARDENEK  S   DAUGHTER  ;   OR,   THE   PICTURES. 


61 


"TTow,"  said  he,   "will  you  climb  the 

top  of  Art. 
You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Floi-a.     Will  you  match 
My  Juliet  ?  you,  not  you,  —  the  Master, 

Love, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all." 

So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep 

for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the  gloom, 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and 

o'er, 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  graced  the  giving  —  such  a  noise  of 

life 
Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such  a 

voice 
Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and 

such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimm'd  the 

dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watchman 

peal 
The  sliding  season  :  all  that  night  I  heard 
The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy 

hours. 
Tlie  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good, 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded  wings. 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 
Love  at  first  sight,  first-bom,  and  heir 

to  all, 
Made  this  night  thus.     Henceforward 

.    squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where  she 

dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me :  sometimes  a 

Dutch  love 
For  tulips  ;  then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk. 
To  grace  my  city-rooms ;  or  fruits  and 

cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm  ;  and  more  and 

more 
A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my  cheek  ; 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy 

dew  ; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with  each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 
One   after  one,  thro'  that  still   garden 

pass'd  : 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  theshade ; 
And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some 

new  grace 
Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by 

day. 


Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  known, 
Hei  beauty  grew  ;  till  Autumn  brought 

an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep  "  I 

will," 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God,  to 

hold 
From  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds  :  but  I 

rose  up 
Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark 

eyes 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I  reach'd 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  standing 

there. 
There   sat  we  down   upon   a  garden 

mound. 
Two  mutually  enfolded  ;  Love,  the  third. 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
En  wound  us  both ;  and  over  many  a  range 
Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers, 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Reveal'd  their  shining  windows  :  from 

them  clash'd 
The  bells  ;  we  listen'd  ;  with  the  time  we 

play'd  ; 
We  spoke  of  other  things  ;  we  coursed 

about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and 

near, 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling 

round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 
Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke 

to  her. 
Requiring,  tho'  I  knew  it  was  mine  own, 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I  took  to  hear. 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I  loved  ; 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  answer'd 

me, 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words. 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one. 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice, 
M«de  me  most  happy,  faltering,  ' '  I  am 

thine." 
Shall  I  cease  here  ?    Is  this  enough  to 

say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes. 
By  its  own  energy  fulfiU'd  itself, 
Merged  in  completion  ?    Would  you  learn 

at  full 
How  passion   rose   thro'  circumstantial 

grades 
Beyond  all  grades  develop'd  ?  and  indeed 
I  had  not  stayed  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 
But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with 

sad  eyes, 


62 


DORA. 


Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth  ; 

And  while  I  mused,  Love  with  knit  brows 
went  by, 

And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  my  lips, 

Andspake,  "Be  wise  :  not  easily  forgiven 

Are  those,  who,  setting  wide  the  doors 
that  bar 

The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart. 

Let  in  the  day."     Here,  then,  my  words 
have  end. 
Yet  might  1  tell  of  meetings,  of  fare- 
wells — 

Of  that  which  came  between,  more  sweet 
than  each, 

In  whispers,  likethe  whispers  of  the  leaves 

That  tremble  round  a  nightingale  —  in 
sighs 

Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex'd  for  utter- 
ance. 

Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.     Might  I 
not  tell 

Of   difference,    reconcilement,    pledges 
given. 

And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need 
of  vows, 

And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one  wild 
leap 

Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as  above 

The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleeting 
stars ; 

Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent- 
lit, 

Spread   the  light  haze  along  the  river- 
shores. 

And  in  the  hollows  ;  or  as  once  we  met 

Unheedful,  tho'  beneath  a  whispering  rain 

Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of  sigh- 
ing wind. 

And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby.  Sleep. 
But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have 
been  intent 

On  that  veil'd  picture  —  veil'd,  for  what 
it  holds 

May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 

This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.     Raise 
thy  soul ; 

Make  thine  heart  ready  mth  thine  eyes  ; 
the  time 

Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 

As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 

My  first,  last  love  ;  the  idol  of  my  youth. 

The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas  ! 

Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine 
age. 


DORA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  tlie  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.    William  was  his  son. 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd  at 

them. 
And  often  thought,  "  I  '11  make  them  man 

and  wife." 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearn'd  towards  William  ;  but  the 

youth,  because 
He  had  been  always  withherin  the  house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When   Allan   call'd   his  son,  and  said, 

"My  son  : 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  ^vish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die  : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match . 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora  :  she  is  well 
To  look  to  :  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter  :  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he 

died 
In  foreign  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora  :   take  her  for  j'our 

wife  ; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night 

and  day, 
For  many  years. "    But  William  answer'd 

short : 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora  ;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora."     Then  the  old 

man 
Was  wroth,  and  douUed  up  his  hands, 

and  said  : 
"You  will  not,  boy  !  you  dare  to  answer 

thus! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law. 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.  Look  to  it ; 
Consider,    William  :    take   a  month  to 

think, 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish  ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall 

pack. 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again. " 
But   William  answer'd  madly;  bit  his 

lips. 
And  broke  away.     The  more  he  look'd  at 

her 
The  less  he  liked  her  ;  and  his  ways  were 

harsh  ; 
But  Dorabore  them  meekly.    Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's 

house. 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the 

fields ; 


DOEA. 


63 


And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd  and 

wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 
Then,  when   the  bells   were  ringing, 

Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said  :  "  My  girl,  I  love  you 

well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son, 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his 

wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is 

law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She 

thought, 
"  It  cannot  be  :  my  uncle's  mind  will 

change ! " 
And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  bom 

a  boy 
To  William  ;  then  distresses  came  on  him; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass' d  his  father's  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd  him 

not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could 

save. 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they 

know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and 

thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and 

said  : 
"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now. 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro'  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  forthe  sake  of  him  that  'sgone, 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he 

chose, 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you  : 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these 

five  years 
So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy. 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart 

is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy. 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's 

gone." 
And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her 

way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies 

grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child ; 


And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to 

him. 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her  ;  and  the  reapers 

reap'd. 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 
But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose 

and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the 

mound  ; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his 

hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  in  to  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work. 
And  came  and  said  :  "  Where  were  you 

yesterday  ? 
Whose  child  is  that  ?    What  are  you 

doing  here  ? " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
And  answer'd  softly,  "  This  is  William's 

child  ! " 
"And  did  1  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ?  "     Dora  said  again  : 
"Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the 

child 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's 

gone  ! " 
And  Allan  said,  "I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you ! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you 

dared 
To  slight  it.     Well  —  for  I  will  take  the 

boy; 
Butgo  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 
So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried 

aloud 
And   struggled  hard.     The  wreath  of 

flowers  fell 
At Dora'sfeet.  Shebow'duponherhands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the 

field. 
More  and  more  distant.    She  bow'd  down 

her  head, 
Remembering  theday  when  firstshecame, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She 

bow'd  down 
And  wept  in   secret ;  and  the  reapers 

reap'd. 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  wa.s 

dark. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and 

stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in 

praise 


64 


AUDLEY  COURT. 


To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widow- 
hood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy  ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you : 
lie  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answer'd  Maiy,  "This  shall  never 

be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on 

thyself : 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the 

hoy. 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to 

slight 
His  mother  ;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go. 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him 

home ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back  : 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one 

house. 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he 

grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd  the 

farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch  :  they  peep'd, 

and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's 

knees. 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  hisarm. 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the 

cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him  :  and  the  lad 

stretch'd  out 
And   babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that 

hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the 

fire. 
Then  they  came  in  :  but  when  the  boy 

beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said  : 
"  0  Father  !  —  if  you  let  me  call  you 

so  — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself. 
Or  William,  or  this  child  ;  but  now  I 

come 
For  Dora  :  take  her  back  ;  she  loves  you 

well. 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at 

peace 
With  all  men  ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he 

said. 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me  — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife  ;  but,  Sir,  he 

said 


That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father 

thus  : 
'  God  bless  him  ! '  he  said,  '  and  may  he 

never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro'  ! '     Then 

he  tum'd 
His  face  and  pass'd  —  unhappy  that   I 

am  ! 
But  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for 

you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn 

to  slight 
His  father's  memory ;  and  takeDora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.    There  wassilence  in  the  room  ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in 

sobs  :  — 
"I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame. 

I  have  kill'd  my  son. 
I  have  kill'd  him  —  but  I  loved  him  — 

my  dear  son. 
May  God  forgive  me  !  —  I  have  been  to 

blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many 

times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  re- 
morse ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred- 
fold ; 
And    for    three    hours    he   sobb'd   o'er 

William's  child. 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together  ;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate  ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


ATTDLEY  COURT. 

"  The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd,  and 

not  a  room 
For  love  or  money.     Let  us  picnic  there 
At  Audley  Court." 

I  spoke,  while  Audley  feast 
Humm'd  like  a  hive  all  round  the  narrow 

quay. 
To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm, 
To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat, 
And  breathing  of  the  sea.      "With  all 

my  heart," 
Said  Francis.     Then  we  shoulder'd  thro' 

the  swarm. 


AUDLEY   COUKT. 


65 


'  I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame.    I  have  kill'd  my  son, 
I  have  kill'd  him  —  but  I  loved  him  —  my  dear  son." 


And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the  beach 

To  where  the  bay  nins  up  its  latest  horn. 

We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly 

lipp'd 
The  flat  red  granite  ;  so  by  many  a  sweep 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we 

reach' d 
The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass'd  thro' 

all 
The  pillar'd  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores, 
And  cross'd  the  garden  to  the  gardener's 

lodge, 
With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its 

walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 
There,  on  aslope  of  orchard,  Francis  laid 
A  damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse 

and  hound, 
Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of 

home, 
And,  half-cut-down,  a  pasty  costly-made, 


Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  leveret 

lay. 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied  ;  last,  with  these, 
A  fla.sk  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats. 
Prime,  which   I  knew  ;    and  so  we  sat 

and  eat 
Andtalk'doldmattersover;whowasdead, 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and  how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent  the 

hall: 
Then  touch'd  upon  the  game,  how  scarce 

it  was 
This  season  ;  glancing  thence,  discuss'd 

the  farm. 
The  fourfield  system,  and  the  price  of 

grain  ; 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where 

we  split. 
And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With  heated  faces  ;  till  he  laugh'd  aloud  ; 


66 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin 

hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine  and 

sang  — 
"  Oh  !  who  would  fight  and  march  and 

countermarch. 
Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field, 
And  shovell'd  up  into  a  bloody  trench 
Where  no  one  knows  ?  but  let  me  live 

my  life. 
"  Oh  !  who  would  cast  and  balance  at 

a  desk, 
Perch'd  like  a  crow  upon  a  three-legg'd 

stool, 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his  joints 
Are  full  of  chalk  ?  but  let  me  live  my  life. 
"Who  'd  serve   the   state?  for  if  I 

carved  my  name 
Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native  land, 
I  might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the  sands ; 
The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my 

life. 
"Oh!  who  would  love?     I  woo'd  a 

woman  once. 

But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind, 

And  all  my  heart  tum'd  from  her,  as  a  thorn 

Turns  from  the  sea ;  but  let  me  live  my  life. " 

He  sang  his  song,  and  1  replied  with 

mine  : 
I  found  it  in  a  volume,  all  of  songs, 
Knock'd  down  to  me,  when  old  Sir  Rob- 
ert's pride, 
His  books — the  more  the  pity,  so  I  said — 
Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March  — 

and  this  — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I  knew. 
•'Sleep,    Ellen    Aubrey,    sleep,    and 

dream  of  me  : 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm, 
And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is 

mine. 
"  Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilia's  arm  ; 
Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou. 
For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 
"Sleep,   breathing  health  and  peace 

upon  her  breast : 
Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against 

her  lip  : 

I  go  to-night :  I  come  to-morrow  mom. 

"I  go,  but  I  return  :  I  would  I  were 

The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the  dream. 

Sleep,   Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream 

of  me." 
So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis  Hale, 
The  farmer's  son,  who  lived  across  the  bay, 
My  friend  ;  and  I,  that  having  where- 
withal. 


And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life 
A  rolling  stone  of  here  and  everywhere, 
Did  what  I  would ;  but  ere  the  night  we 

rose 
And  saunter'd  home  beneath  a  moon, 

that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach'd 
The  limit  of  the  hills  ;  and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming 

quay, 
The  town  was  hush'd  beneath  us  :  lower 

down 
The  bay  was  oily  calm  ;  the  harbor-buoy 
Sole  star  of  phosphorescence  in  the  calm, 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at  heart. 


WALKING   TO   THE   MAIL. 

John.  I  'm  glad  I  walk'd.  How  fresh 
the  meadows  look 
Above  the  river,  and,  but  a  month  ago, 
The  whole  hillside  was  redder  than  a  fox. 
Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway  joins 
The  turnpike  ? 

James.  Yes. 

John.     And  when  does  this  come  by  ? 
James.  The  mail  ?   At  one  o'clock. 
John.  What  is  it  now  ? 

James.  A  quarter  to. 
John.  Whose  house  is  that  I  see  ? 

No,  not  the  County  Member's  with  the 

vane  : 
Uphigherwith  theyewtreebyit,  andhalf 
A  score  of  gables. 

James.       That  ?   Sir  Edward  Head's  : 

But  he  's  abroad  :  the  place  is  to  be  .sold. 

John.  0,  his.     He  was  not  broken. 

James.  No,  sir,  he, 

Vex'd  with  a  morbid  devil  in  his  blood 

That  veil'd  the  world  with  jaundice,  hid 

his  face 
From  all  men,    and  commercing  with 

himself. 
He  lost  the  sense  that  handles  daily  life — 
That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or  less  — 
And  sick  of  home  went  overseas  for  change. 
John.  And  whither  ? 
Jam^s.  Nay,  who  knows  ?  he  's  here 
and  there. 
But  let  him  go  ;  his  devil  goes  with  him. 
As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky  Dawes. 
John.   What  's  that  ? 
Janfies.  You  saw  the  man  —  on  Mon- 
day, was  it  ?  — 


WALKING  TO   THE   MAIL. 


67 


There  by  the  humpback'd  willow  ;  half 

stands  up 
And  bristles  ;  half  has  fall'n  and  made  a 

bridge  ; 
And  there  he  caught  the  younker  tick- 
ling trout  — 
Caught  in  flagraide  —  what  's  the  Latin 

word  ?  — 
Delicto :  but  his  house,  for  so  they  say, 
Was  haunted  with  a  j  oily  ghost,  that  shook 
The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt  at 

doors, 
And  rummaged  like  a  rat :  no  servant 

stay'd  : 
The  fanner  vext  packs  up  his  beds  and 

chairs. 
And  all  his  household  stuff ;  and  with 

his  boy 
Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the  tilt, 
Sets  out,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails 

him,  "What! 
You  're  flitting  ! "  "  Yes,  we  're  flitting," 

says  the  ghost, 
(For  they  had  pack'd  the  tiling  among 

the  beds,) 
"0  well,"  says  he,  "you  flitting  with 

us  too  — 
Jack,  turn  the  horses'  heads  and  home 

again." 
John.  He  left  his  wife  behind  ;  for  so  I 

heard. 
James.   He  left  her,  yes.     I  met  my 

lady  once  : 
A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as  crabs. 
John.  0    yet    but   1    remember,    ten 

years  back  — 
'T  is  now  at  least  ten  years  —  and  then 

she  was  — 
You  could  not  light  upon  a  sweeter  thing : 
A  body  slight  and  round,   and  like  a 

pear 
In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a  hand,  a  foot 
Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a  skin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it 

flowers. 
James.  Ay,    ay,    the   blossom   fades, 

and  they  that  loved 
At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and 

dog. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  cottager. 
Out  of  her  sphere.   What  betwixt  shame 

and  pride. 
New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her, 

she  sour'd 
To  what  she  is :  a  nature  never  kind  ! 
Like  men,    like   manners :  like  breeds 

liki^  they  say. 


Kind  nature  is  the  best ;  those  manners 

next 
That  fit  us  like  a  nature  second-hand  ; 
Which   ai-e  indeed  the  manners  of  the 

great. 
John.  But  I  had  heard  it  was  this  bill 

that  past, 
And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove 

him  hence. 
JaTnes.  That  was  the  last  drop  in  the 

cup  of  gall. 
I  once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff 

brought 
A  Chartist  pike.     You  should  have  seen 

him  wince 
As  from  a  venomous  thing  :  he  thought 

himself 
A  mark  for  all,  and  shudder'd,  lest  a 

cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and  his 

nice  eyes 
Should   see  the  raw  mechanic's  bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat  on  his  blazon'd  chairs  ;  but,  sir, 

you  know 
That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the 

world  — 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have  : 

and  still 
The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from  age 

to  age 
With  much  the  same  result.     Now  I  my- 
self, 
A  Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 
Destructive,  when    I    had   not  what    1 

would. 
I  was  at  school  —  a  college  in  the  South  : 
There  lived  a  flayflint  near  ;  we  stole  his 

fruit, 
His  hens,  his  eggs  ;  but  there  was  law  for 

us ; 
We  paid  in  person.     He  had  a  sow,  sir. 

She, 
With  meditative  grunts  of  much  content. 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun  and 

mud. 
By  night  we  dragg'd  her  to  the  college 

tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  corkscrew 

stair 
With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the  groan- 
ing sow. 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she 

Large  range  of  prospect  had  the  mother 

sow. 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  slie  loved. 


68 


EDWIN   MORRIS;   OR,   THE   LAKE, 


As  one  by  one  we  took  them  —  but  for 

this  — 
As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this  world  — 
Might  have  been  happy  :  but  what  lot  is 

pure  ? 
We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left  alone 
Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine, 
And  so  return' d  unfarrow'd  to  her  sty. 
John.  They  found  you  out  ? 
James.  Not  they. 

John.  Well  —  after  all  — 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a  man  ? 
His  nerves  were  wrong.     What  ails  us, 

who  are  sound, 
That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the 

world. 
Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse  blacks 

or  whites. 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm, 
As  cruel  as  a  schoolboy  ere  he  grows 
To  Pity —  more  from  ignorance  than  will. 
But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or  I  fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail :  and  here 

it  comes 
With  five  at  top  :  as  quaint  a  four-in-hand 
As  you  shall  see  —  three  pyebalds  and  a 

roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS ;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 

0  ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake, 
My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters  of  a 

year. 
My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life  !     I  was  a  sketcher  then  : 
See  here,  my  doing  :  curves  of  mountain, 

bridge. 
Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a  castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a 

rock. 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock  : 
And  here,  new-comers  in  an  ancient  hold. 
New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  million- 

naires. 
Here  lived  the  Hills — a  Tudor-chimneyed 

bulk 
Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of  bowers. 

0  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake 
With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward  Bull 
The  curate  ;  he  was  fatter  than  his  cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the 
names. 
Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss  and 
fern. 


Who  forged  a  thousand  theories  of  the 

rocks. 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row,  t( 

swim, 
Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good. 
His  own  —  I  call'd  him  Crichton,  for  he 

seem'd 
All-perfect,  finish'd  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I  ask'd  him  of  his  early  life, 
Andhisfirstpassion  ;  andheanswer'dme; 
And  well  his  words  became  him  :  was  he 

not 
A  full-cell'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all   flowers  ?     Poet-like   he 

spoke. 

"My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I  ; 
But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to  that. 
And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love 

for  her. 
My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for  her, 
Of  diff'erent  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew. 
Twin -sisters  diti'erently  beautiful. 
To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the  sun. 
And  some  full  music  seem'd  to  move  and 

change 
With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the  dark, 
And  either  twilight  and  the  day  between  ; 
For  daily  hope  fulfill'd,  to  rise  again 
Revolving   toward   fulfilment,    made  it 

sweet 
To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleep,  to  wake,  to 

breathe." 

Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he 

spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 

Bull, 
"  I  take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for 

the  man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world. 
A  pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well. 
To  have  a  dame  indoors,  that  trims  us  up. 
And   keeps  us  tight ;  but  these   unreal 

ways 
Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and  indeed 
Worn  threadbare.     Man  is  made  of  solid 

stuff. 
I  say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man. 
And   for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world." 

"  Parson,"  said  I,  "you  pitch  the  pipe 
too  low  : 
But  I  have  sudden  touches,  and  can  run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his  : 
Tho'  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 


EDWIN   MOERIS;   OR,   THE  LAKE. 


69 


I  do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 
I  scarce  have  other  music  :  yet  say  on. 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such  a 

dream  ?" 
I  ask'd  him  half-sardonically.     - 

"Give? 
Give  all  thouart,"  heanswer'd,  andalight 
Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy  cheek ; 
"  1  would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my  heart, 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin  :  my  ears  coiild 

hear 
Her  lightest  breaths  :  her  least  remark 

was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  wise.     I  went  and 

came  ; 
Her  voice  fled  always  thro'  the  summer 

land ; 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.     Thrice-happy 

days  ! 
The  flower  of  each,  those  moments  when 

we  met, 
The  crown  of  all,  we  ipet  to  part  no  more." 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I  a  beast 
To  take  them  as  I  did  ?  but  something 

jarr'd  ; 
Whether  he  spoke  too  largely  ;  that  there 

seem'd 
A  touch  of  something  false,  some  self- 
conceit, 
Or  over-smoothness  :  howsoe'er  it  was. 
He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I  said  : 

**  Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  yourself 

alone 
Of  all  men  hapjjy.     Shall  not  Love  to  me, 
As  in  the  Latin  song  I  learnt  at  school, 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you  right  and 

left? 
But  you  can  talk  :  yours  is  a  kindly  vein : 

I  have,  I  think,  —  Heaven  knows  —  as 

much  within  ; 
Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a  thought 

or  two. 
That  like  a  purple  beech  among  the  greens 
Looks  out  of  place  :  't  is  from  no  want  in 

her : 

I I  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust. 
Or  something  of  a  wayward  modern  mind 
Dissecting  passion.     Time   will  set  me 

right." 

So  spoke  1  knowing  not  the  things 
that  were. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 
Bull; 


"God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of  man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world." 
And  I  and  Edwin  laugh'd  ;  and  now  we 

paused 
About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to  heal 
The   soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy 

holms 
And  alders,  garden-isles ;  and  now  we  left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lakii, 
Delighted  with   the  freshness   and  the 

sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their 

crags, 
My  suit  had  wither'  d,  nipt  to  death  by  him 
That  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyer's  clerk. 
The  reutroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 
'T  is  true,  we  met;  onehourlhad,nomore  : 
She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  Mle  votes  suit, 
The  close  "  Your  Letty,  only  yours  "  ;  and 

this 
Thrice  underscored.     The  friendly  mist 

of  morn 
Clung  to  the  lake.     I  boated  over,  ran 
My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with  beating 

heart 
The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelving 

keel ; 
And  out  I  stept,  and  up  I  crept :  she  moved, 
Like    Proserpine    in    Enna,    gathering 

flowers  : 
Then  low  and  sweet  1  whistled  thrice  ; 

and  she. 
She  turn'd,  we  closed,  we  kiss'd,  swore 

faith,  I  breathed 
In  some  new  planet :  a  silent  cousin  stole 
Upon  us  and  departed :  "Leave,  "she  cried, 
' '  0  leave  me  !  "    "  Never,  dearest,  never : 

here 
I  brave  the  worst"  :  and  while  we  stood 

like  fools 
Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 
And  poodles  yell'd  within,  and  out  they 

came 
Trustees  and  Aunts  and  Uncles.    "What, 

with  him  ! 
Go"  (shrill'd  the  cotton-spinning  chorus) ; 

"  him  ! " 
1  choked.     Again  they  shriek'd  the  bur- 
den—  "  Him  !  " 
Again  with  hands  of  wild  rejection  "Go! — 
Girl,  get  you  in  !"    She  went — and  in 

one  month 
They   wedded    her  to    sixty   thousand 

pounds, 


70 


ST.    SIMEON   STYLITES. 


To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in  York, 
And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery 

smile 
And  educated  whisker.     But  for  me, 
They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work  : 
It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force  and 

arms  : 
There  came  a  mystic  token  from  the  king 
To  greet  the  .sheriff,  needless  courtesy  ! 
I   read,  and  fled   by  night,  and   flying 

turn'd  : 
Her  taper  glimmer'd  in  the  lake  below  : 
I  turn'd  once  more,  close-buttoned  to  the 

storm ; 
So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have  seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared  to 

hear. 

Not  cared  to  hear  ?  perhaps  :  yet  long 

ago 
I  have  pardon'd  little  Letty  ;  not  indeed, 
It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but  this, 
She  seems  a  part  of  those  fresh  days  to  me  ; 
Por  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  London  life 
She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the  lake, 
While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing, 

or  then 
While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  overhead 
The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the  summer 

crag. 


ST.    SIMEON   STYLITES. 

Altho'  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind. 
From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust 

of  sin, 
Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce 

meet 
For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blasphemy, 
I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I  hold 
Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn  and 

sob. 
Battering  the  gates  of  heaven  with  storms 

of  prayer, 
Have  mercy.  Lord,  and  take  away  my  sin. 
Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty 

God, 
This  not  be  all  in  vain ,  that  thrice  ten  years. 
Thrice  multiplied  by  superhuman  pangs, 
Inhungei-sand  in  thirsts,  fevers  and  cold. 
In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous  throes 

and  cramps, 
A  sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the  cloud, 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and 

sleet,  and  snow ; 


And  I  had  hoped  that  ere  this  period  closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into 

thy  rest, 
Denying  not  these  weather-beaten  limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and 
the  palm. 
0  take  the  meaning.  Lord  :  I  do  not 
breathe, 
Not  whisper,  any  murmur  of  complaint. 
Pain    heap'd  ten-hundred-fold   to   this, 

Avere  still 
Less  burden,    by  ten-hundred-fold,    to 

bear. 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin, 

that  crush'd 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

0  Lord,  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  I  bore  this  better  at  the  first, 
For  I  was  strong  and  hale  of  body  then  ; 
And  tho'  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt , 

away. 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all  my 

beard 
Was  tagg'd  with  icy  fringes  in  the  moon, 
I  drown'd  the  whoopings  of  the  owl  with 

sound 
Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and  some- 
times saw 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I  sang. 
Now  am  I  feeble  grown  ;  my  end  draws 

nigh; 
I  hope  my  end  draws  nigh  :  half  deaf  I  am, 
So  that  I  scarce  can  hear  the  people  hum 
About  the   column's   base,    and   almost 

blind. 
And  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I  know; 
And  both  my  thighs  are  rotted  with  the 

dew ; 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  clamor  and  to  cry. 
While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my  weary 

head, 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from  the 

stone. 
Have  mercy,  mercy  :  take  away  my  sin. 
0  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my  soul, 
Who  may  be  saved?  who  is  it  may  be 

saved  ? 
Who  may  be  made  a  saint,  if  1  fail  here  ? 
Show   me  the  man  hath  suffer'd  more 

than  I. 
For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  one  death  ? 
For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  crucified. 
Or  burn'din  fire,  or  boil'd  in  oil,  or  sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs  ;  but  1  die  here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a  life  of 

death. 
Bear  witness,  if  I  could  have  found  a  way 


ST.    SIMEON   STYLITES. 


71 


(And  heedfuUy  I  sifted  all  my  thought) 
More  slowly-painful  to  subdue  this  home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and  hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice,  0  my  God. 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-panishment. 
Not  this  alone  I  bore  :  but  while  I  lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley 

there, 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I  wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from  the 

well. 
Twisted  as  tight  as  I  could  knot  the 

noose  ; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul, 
Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro'  my  skin, 
Betray'd  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My  brethren  marvell'dgreatly.  More  than 

this 
I  bore,  whereof,  0  God,  thou  knowest  all. 
Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might  grow 

to  thee, 
I  lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountainside. 
My  right  leg  chain'd  into  the  crag,  I  lay 
Pent  in  a  roofless  close  of  ragged  stones  ; 
Inswathed  sometimes  in  wandering  mist, 

and  twice 
Black'd  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and 

sometimes 
Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eating 

not. 
Except  the   spare  chance-gift  of  those 

that  came 
To  touch  mybodyandbe  heal'd,  and  live  : 
And  they  say  then  that  1  work'd  miracles, 
Whereof  my  fame  is  loud  amongst  man- 
kind. 
Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers.    Thou, 

OGod, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy  ;  cover  all  my  sin. 
Then,  that  I  might  be  more  alone  with 

thee, 
Three  years  I  lived  upon  a  pillar,  high 
Six  cubits,  and  three   years  on  one  of 

twelve  ; 
And  twice  three  years  I  crouch'd  on  one 

that  rose 

Twenty  by  measure  ;  last  of  all,  I  grew 

Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to  this, 

That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 

I  think  that  I  have  borne  as  much  as 

this  — 
Or  else  I  dream  —  and  for  so  long  a  time, 
If  I  may  measure  time  by  yon  slow  light. 
And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow 

crowns  — 
So  much  —  even  so. 


And  yet  I  know  not  well. 

For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and 
say, 

"  Fall  down,  0  Simeon  :  thou  hast  suf- 
fer'd  long 

For  ages  and  for  ages  !  "  then  they  prate 

Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  thro'. 

Perplexing  me  with  lies  ;  and  oft  I  fall. 

Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind  lethar- 
gies. 

That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time  are 
choked. 

But  yet 

Bethink  thee,  Lord,  while  thou  and  all 
the  saints 

Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men  on 
earth 

House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable  roofs, 

Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  whole- 
some food. 

And  wear  warm  clothes,  and  even  beasts 
have  stalls, 

I,  'tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of  the 
light, 

Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hun- 
dred times. 

To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the 
Saints  ; 

Or  in  the  night,  after  a  little  sleep, 

I  wake  :  the  chill  stars  sparkle  ;  1  am  wet 

With  drenching  dews,  or  stiS"  with  crack- 
ling frost. 

I  wear  an  undress'd  goatskin  on  my  back  ; 

A  grazing  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck  ; 

And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the 
cross, 

And  strive  and  wi-estle  with  thee  till  I 
die  : 

0  mercy,  mercy  !  wash  away  my  sin.       '. 
0  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  man  I 
am  ; 

A  sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in  sin  : 

'T  is  their  own  doing  ;  this  is  none  of 
mine  ; 

Lay  it  not  to  me.     Am  I  to  blame  for 
this. 

That  here  come  those  that  worship  me  ? 
Ha  !  ha  ! 

They  think  that  I  am  somewhat.    What 
am  I  ? 

The  silly  people  take  me  for  a  saint. 

And   bring  me   off'erings   of  fruit   and 
flowers  : 

And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness 
here) 

Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and 
more 


72 


ST.   SIMEON  STYLITES. 


Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose 
names 

Are  register'd  and  calendar'd  for  saints. 
Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 

What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit  this  ? 

I  am  a  sinner  viler  than  you  all. 

It  may  be  I  have  wrought  some  miracles. 

And  cured  some  halt  and  maim'd  ;  but 
what  of  that  ? 

It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the  saints. 

May  match  his  pains  with  mine  ;   but 
what  of  that  ? 

Yet  do  not  rise  ;  for  you  may  look  on  me, 

And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to 
God. 

Speak  !    is  there   any  of  you  halt  or 
maim'd  ? 

I  think  you  know  I  have  some  power  with 
Heaven 

From  my  long  penance  :  let  him  speak 
his  wish. 
Yes,  I  can  heal  him.    Power  goes  forth 
from  me. 

They  say  that  they  are  heal'd.     Ah, 
hark  !  they  shout 

"St.  Simeon  St}dites."     "Why,  if  so, 

God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me.     0  my  soul, 

God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.    If  this  be, 

C^n  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved  ? 

This  is  not  told  of  any.    They  were  saints. 

It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  saved  ; 

Yea,  crown'd  a  saint.    They  shout,  "Be- 
hold a  saint  ! " 

And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 

Courage,  St.  Simeon  !  This  dull  chrysalis 

Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope  ere 
death 

Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that 
God  hath  now 

Sponged  and  made  blank  of  crimeful 
record  all 

My  mortal  archives. 

0  my  sons,  my  sons, 

I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 

Stylites,  among  men  ;  I,  Simeon, 

The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end  ; 

I,    Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine 
bakes  ; 

I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours  be- 
come 

Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 

From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here  pro- 
claim 

That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 

Show'd  like  fair  seraphs.     On  the  coals 
Hay, 

A  vessel  full  of  sin  :  all  hell  beneath 


Made  me  boil  over.     Devils  pluck'd  my 

sleeve  ; 
Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 
I  smote  them  with  the  cross ;  they  swarm'd 

again. 
In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they  crush'd 

my  chest : 
Theyflapp'd  my  light  out  as  I  read  :  I  saw 
Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my 

book  ; 
"With,  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hoggish 

whine 
They  burst  my  prayer.     Yet  this  way 

was  left. 
And  by  this  way  I  'scaped  them.    Mortify 
Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges  and 

with  thorns  ; 
Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.     If  ijt  may 

be,  fast 
Whole  Lents,  and  pray.     I  hardly,  wi^h 

slow  steps. 
With  slow,  faint   steps,  and  much  ex- 
ceeding pain. 
Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire, 

that  still 
Sing  in  mine  ears.     But  yield  not  me  the 

praise : 
God  only  thro'  his  bounty  hath  thought 

fit, 
Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this 

world. 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind. 
Which  few  can  reach  to.     Yet  I  do  not 

say 
But  that  a  time  may  come  —  yea,  even 

now. 
Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the  thresh- 
old stairs 
Of  life  —  I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 
When  you  may  worship  me  without  re- 
proach ; 
For  I  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land. 
And  you  may  carve  ashrine  about  my  dust. 
And  burn  a  fragrant  lamp  before  my  bones, 
When  I  am  gather'd  to  the  glorious  saints. 
While  I  spake  then,  asting  of  shrewdest 

pain 
Ran  shrivelling  thro'  me,  and  a  cloudlike 

change, 
In  passing,  with  a  gi-osser  film  made  thick 
These  heavy,  hornj"^  eyes.    The  end  !  the 

end  ! 
Surely  the  end  !     What 's  here  ?  a  shape, 

a  shade, 
A  flash  of  light.     Is  that  the  angel  there 
That  holds  a  crown  ?     Come,    blessed 

brother,  come.  ■ 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


73 


I  know  thyglittering  face.  I  waited  long ; 
My  brows  are  ready.  What !  deny  it  now  ? 
Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.   So  I  clutch 

it.     Christ  ! 
'T  is  gone  :  't  is  here  again  ;  the  crown  ! 

the  crown  ! 
So  now  't  is  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me. 
And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 
Sweet !  sweet !  spikenard,  and  bahn,  and 

frankincense. 
Ah  !  let  me  not  be  fool'd,  sweet  saints  : 

I  trust 
That  I  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet 

for  Heaven. 
Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man  of 

God, 
Among  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 
A])proach,  and  lean  a  ladder  on  the  shaft. 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home, 
Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament ; 
For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  0  Lord, 
Aid  all  this  foolish  people  ;  let  them  take 
Example,  pattern  :  lead  them  to  thy  light. 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 

Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls  ; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'd  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chace. 

Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies. 
Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke  ; 

And  ah  !  with  what  delighted  eyes 
I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  pa.ssion  first  began. 
Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn'd, 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 
Could  hope  itself  retum'd  ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

I  spoke  without  restraint. 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd 

Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  I  talk'd  with  him  apart, 
And  told  him  of  my  choice, 

Until  he  plagiarized  a  heart, 
And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 

Tho'  what  he  whisper' d,  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand  ; 


I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 

Is  many  a  weary  hour  ; 
'T  were  well  to  question  him,  and  try 

If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 
Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 

Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs.  — 

"  0  Walter,  I  have  shelter'd  here 

Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year. 

Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace  : 

"  Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat, 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek, 

Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

"Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter's-pence, 
And  number'd  bead,  and  shrift. 

Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spence, 
And  tiim'd  the  cowls  adrift : 

"And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Fresh  faces,  that  would  thrive 

When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five  ; 

"  And  all  that  from  the  town  would  stroll, 
Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 

In  ivhich  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 
Went  by  me,  like  a  stork  : 

"The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood. 

And  others,  passing  praise, 
Strait-laced,  but  all-too-fuU  in  bud 

For  puritanic  stays  : 

"And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 

Of  beauties,  that  were  bom 
In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop. 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn  ; 

"And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay, 
About  inc  h'.ap'd  and  laugh'd 

The  modest  Cupid  of  the  day, 
And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft. 


74 


THE  TALKING   OAK. 


"  1  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 

Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 

Is  three  times  worth  them  all ; 

"  For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law. 

Have  faded  long  ago  ; 
But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 

Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

"From  when  she  gamboll'd  on  the  greens, 

A  baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 

Could  number  five  from  ten. 

"  I  swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  tho'  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years  — 

"Yet,  since  I  first  could  cast  a  shade, 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made. 

So  light  upon  the  grass  : 

"  For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit. 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh." 

0,  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 

And  overlook  the  chace  ; 
And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name. 
That  oft  hast  heard  my  vows, 

Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

"0  yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 

Was  holden  at  the  town  ; 
Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair. 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

"And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his. 

I  look'd  at  him  with  joy  : 
As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is. 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

"  An    hour    had    past  —  and,    sitting 
straight 

Within  the  low-wheel'd  chaise. 
Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 

Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

"  But,  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home 
And  on  the  roof  she  went. 


And  down  the  way  you  used  to  come. 
She  look'd  with  discontent. 

"She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf ; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut  : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

"  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

"A  light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing, 
And  in  the  chase  grew  wild, 

As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 
About  the  darling  child  : 

"  But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir. 
The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and  rose, 

And  turn'd  to  look  at  her. 

"  And  here  she  came,  and  round  me  play'd. 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 

About  my  '  giant  bole  '  ; 

"  And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth 
She  strove  to  span  my  waist  : 

Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 
I  could  not  be  embraced. 

"  I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 

That  here  beside  me  stands. 
That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 

She  might  have  lock'd  her  hands. 

"  Yet  seem'd  the  pressure  thrice  as  sweet 

As  woodbine's  fragile  hold. 
Or  when  I  feel  about  my  feet 

The  berried  briony  fold." 

0  muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern. 
And  shadow  Sumner-chace  ! 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 

I  carved  with  many  vows 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  ? 

"0  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 

Andfound,  andkiss'd  thename  shefound, 
And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 


THE  TALKING   OAK. 


75 


"  A  teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 
And  down  my  surface  crept. 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse. 
But  I  believe  she  wept. 

"  Then  flush'd  her  cheek  with  rosy  light. 
She  glanced  across  the  plain  ; 

But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight : 
She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

"  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind, 
That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 

Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind. 
But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd  : 

"  And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

A  pleasure  I  discem'd. 
Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 

That  show  the  year  is  tum'd. 


"  Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 
The  ringlet's  waving  balm  — 

The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may  press 
The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

"  I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adju.st 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 

With  anthers  and  with  dust : 

"  For  ah  !  my  friend,  the  days  were  brief 

Whereof  the  poets  talk. 
When  that,  which  breathes  within  the  leaf, 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

"  But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone. 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem. 

Have  suck'd  and  gather'd  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 


"  She  {glanced  across  the  plain ; 
But  not  a  creature  was  in  ilKht : 
She  Iciss'd  me  once  again." 


76 


THE   TALKING   OAK. 


"She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss  ; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro', 
I  would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss, 

With  usury  thereto." 

0  flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  lea. 
Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers, 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

0  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern. 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well ; 
A  thousand  thanks  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  tell. 

"  'T  is  little  more  :  the  day  was  warm  ; 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play. 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

"  Her  eyelids  dropp'd  their  silken  eaves. 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro'  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mix'd  with  sighs. 

"  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life  — 
The  music  from  the  town  — 

The  murmurs  of  the  di'um  and  fife 
And  luU'd  them  in  my  own. 

"Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip. 

To  light  her  shaded  eye  ; 
A  second  flutter'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly  ; 

"A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine  ; 

Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck, 
From  head  to  ankle  fine. 

"  Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I  spread. 
And  shadow'd  all  her  rest  — 

Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 
An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

"  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up, 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup. 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

"  And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift  — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

"  I  shook  him  down  because  he  was 
The  finest  on  the  tree. 


He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass. 
0  kiss  him  once  for  me. 

' '  0  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me. 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this." 

Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 
Look  further  thro'  the  chace. 

Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discpn? 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest, 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice. 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset, 
Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint, 
That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 

From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

0  rock  upon  thj'  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet  ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 
And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 
That  under  deeply  strikes  ! 

The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 
High  up,  in  silver  spikes  ! 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep. 
Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain, 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep  ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath, 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth, 

And  gain  her  for  my  brida 


LOVE  AND   DUTY, 


77 


Anil  when  my  marriage  mom  may  fall, 
She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 

Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 
In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rh3'^me, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  houor'd  beech  or  lime. 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth. 

In  which  the  swarthy  ringdove  sat. 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke  ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode, 
And  humm'd  a  surly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close, 
What  sequel  ?  Streaming  eyes  and  break- 
ing hearts  ? 
Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 
Not  so.     Shall  Error  in  the  round  of 
time 
Still  father  Trath  ?    0  shall  the  braggart 

shout 
For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom  work 

itself 
Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to  law 
System  and  empire  ?    Sin  itself  be  found 
The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the  Sun  ? 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 
Mere  highway  dust  ?  or  year  by  year  alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a  life. 
Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of  him- 
self ? 
If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed,  were 
all, 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart, 
The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sapless 

days. 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro. 
The  .set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  I  not  the  nobler  thro'  thy  love  ? 
0  three  times  less  unworthy!  likewise  thou 
Art  more  thro'  Love,  and  greater  than  thy 

years. 
The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the  Moon 
Her  circle.     Wait,  and  Love  him.self  will 

bring 
The  droopingflower  of  knowledge  changed 
to  fruit 


Of  wisdom.     Wait :  my  faith  is  large  in 

Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect 

end. 
Will  some  one  say.  Then  why  not  ill  for 

good  ? 
Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime  ?    To  that 

man 
My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew  the 

right 
And  did  it ;  for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 
But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a  man. 
—  So  let  me  think  't  is  well  for  ^thee  and 

me  — 
Ill-fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Wliose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my  heart 

so  slow 
To  feel  it !    For  how  hard  it  seem'd  to  me, 
When  eyes,  love-languid  thro  half-tears, 

would  dwell 
One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon  mine. 
Then  not  to  dare  to  see  !  when  thy  low 

voice, 
Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to 

keep 
My  own  full-tuned,  —  hold  passion  in  a 

leash. 
And  not  leap  forthandfallaboutthyneck. 
And  on  thy  bosom,  (deep-desired  relief !) 
Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that 

weigh' d 
Upon  my  brain,  my  senses  and  my  soul ! 
For  Love  himself  took  part  against 

himself 
To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  loved  of  Love  — 
0  this  world's  curse,  —  beloved  but  hated 

—  came 
Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace  and 

mine, 
And  crying,  "Who  is  this  ?  behold  thy- 

bride," 
She  push'd  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 
To  alien  ears,  I  did  not  speak  to  these  — 
No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  thyself  in  me  : 
Hard  is  my  doom  and  thine  :  thou  know- 

est  it  all. 
Could  Love  part  thus  ?  was  it  not  well 

to  speak, 
To  have  spoken  once  ?    It  could  not  but 

be  well. 
The  slow  sweet  houi-s  that  bring  us  all 

things  good, 
The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all 

things  ill, 
And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought 

the  night 


78 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 


In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone, 
And  to  the  want,  that  hoUow'd  all  the 

heart, 
Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an  eye. 
That  burn'd  upon  its  object  thro'  such 

tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those  caresses,  when  a  hundred  times 
In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the  last. 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived  and 

died. 
Then  follow'd  counsel,  comfort,  and  the 

words 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speaking 

truth  ; 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  overhead 
The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise  niix'd 
In  that  brief  night ;  the  summer  night, 

that  paused 
Among  her  stars  to  hear  us  ;  stars  that 

hung 
Love-charm'd  to  listen  :  all  the  wheels 

of  Time 
Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end  had 

come. 
0  then  like  those,  who  clench  their 

nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 
There  —  closing  like  an  individual  life  — 
In  one  blind  ciy  of  passion  and  of  pain, 
Like  bitter  accusation  ev'n  to  death, 
Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  andutter'dit, 
And  bade  adieu  for  ever. 

Live  —  yet  live  — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  knowing 

all 
Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will  — 
Live  happy  ;  tend  thy  flowers  ;  be  tended 

by 

My  blessing  !     Should  my  Shadow  cross 

thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it  thou 
For  calmer  hours  to  Memory's  darkest 

hold. 
If  not  to  be  forgotten  —  not  at  once  — 
Not  all  forgotten.     Should  it  cross  thy 

dreams, 
0  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks  con- 
tent, 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  trath. 
And  point  thee  forward  to  a  distant  light, 
Or  seem  to  lift  a  burden  from  thy  heart 
And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake  re- 
fresh'd. 
Then  when  the  first  low  matin-chirp  hath 
grown 


Full  quire,  andmorningdriv'nherplough 

of  ])earl 
Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded 

rack. 
Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  eastern  sea. 


THE   GOLDEN  YEAR. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which 

Leonard  wrote  : 
It  was  last  summer  on  a  tour  in  Wales  : 
Old  James  was  with  me  :  we  that  day 

had  been 
Up  Snowdon  ;  and  I  wish'd  for  Leonard 

tliere. 
And  found  him  in  Llanberis  :  then  we 

crost 
Between  the  lakes,  and  clamber'd  half 

way  up 
The  counter  side  ;  and  that  same  song  of 

his 
He  told  me  ;  fori  banter'dhim,  and  swore 
They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within  himself, 
A  tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous  days. 
That,  setting the/iOTOJHMcA  before  the /loiy. 
Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horseleech, 

"  Give, 
Cram  us  with  all,"  but  count  not  me  the 

herd  ! 
To  which  "They  call  me  what  they 

will,"  he  said  : 
"  But  I  was  born  too  late :  the  fair  new 

forms. 
That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an  age. 
Like  truths   of  Science  waiting  to   be 

caught  — 
Catch  me  who  can,  and  make  the  catcher 

crown'd  — 
Are  taken  by  the  forelock.     Let  it  be. 
But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen,  hear 
These  measured  words,  my  work  of  yes- 

termorn. 
"  We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but  all 

things  move  ; 
The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother  Sun  ; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel'd  in  her 

ellipse  ; 
And  human  things  returning  on  them- 
selves 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 
"Ah,  tho'  the  times,  when  some  new 

thought  can  bud, 
Are  but  as  poets'  seasons  when  they  flower, 
Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore, 
Have  ebb   and  flow  conditioning  their 

march, 


ULYSSES. 


79 


And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden 

year. 
"  When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in 

mounded  heaps, 
But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly  melt 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 
And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  liker 

man 
Thro'  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 
"  Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  ?  wrens  be 

wrens  ? 
I  f  all  the  world  were  falcon  s,  what  of  that  ? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less. 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.     Happy  days 
KoU  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 
"  Fly,  happy  happy  sails  and  bear  the 

Press  ; 
Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross  ; 
Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  havenward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear 

of  toll. 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 
"  But  we  grow  old.     Ah  !  when  shall 

all  men's  good 
Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  Peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land. 
And  like  a  lane  ofbeanis  athwart  the  sea. 
Thro'  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year  ? " 
Thus  far  he  flow'd,  and  ended  ;  where- 
upon 
"Ah,    folly!"    in   mimic   cadence   an- 

swer'd  James  — 
"  Ah,  folly  !  for  it  lies  so  far  away, 
Notin  ourtime,  norin  our  children's  time, 
'T  is  like  the  second  world  to  us  that  live  ; 
'T  were  all  as  one  to  fix  our  hopes  on 

Heaven 
As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year." 
With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against 

the  rocks 
And  broke  it,  —  James,  —  you  know  him, 

—  old,  but  full 
Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his  feet, 
.\nd  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter  woods, 
O'erfiourish'd  with  the  hoary  clematis  : 
Then  added,  all  in  heat : 

"  What  stuff  is  this  ! 
Old  writers  push'd   the  happy   season 

back,  — 
The    more   fools    they,  —  we    forward : 

dreamers  both  : 
You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every  hour 
Must  sweather  sixty  minutes  to  the  death. 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seedsman, 

rapt 
Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not 

plunge 


His  hand  into  the  bag  :  but  well  I  know 
That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels  he 

works. 
This  same  grand  year  is  ever  at  the  doors." 
He  spoke  ;  and,  high  above,  I  heard 

them  blast 
The  steep   slate  quarry,  and   the   gi-eat 

eclio  flap 
And  buffet  round  the  hills  from  bluff  to 

bluff. 


ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king. 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 

ciags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and 

dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race. 
That  hoard,  and   sleep,  and  feed,    and 

know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel  :  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees  :  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with 

those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone  ;  on  shore,  and 

when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea  :  I  am  become  a  name  ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  andknowu ;  citiesofmen 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  govern- 
ments. 
Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all ; 
And  drunk  del  ight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams  that   untravell'd  world,  whose 

margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unbuniish'd,  not  to  shine  in  u.se  ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled 

on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From   that   etenial   silence,    something 

more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself. 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 
Beyond   the   utmost    bound    of  human 

thought. 


80 


ULYSSES. 


This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
Thislabor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  1  am  gone.     He  works  his  work, 

1  mine. 
There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  pufiFs 

her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My 

mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and 

thought  with  me  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 


The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  op- 
posed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and  1 

are  old  ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all  :  but  something  ere  the 

end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done. 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with 

Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 
The   long  day   wanes  :  the  slow  moon 

climbs :  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come, 

my  friends, 
'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose 

holds 


•  There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas." 


LOCKSLEY    HALL. 


81 


To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  1  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us 

down: 
It  maybe  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see   the  great  Achilles,  whom  we 

knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides  :  and 

tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in 

old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven  ;  that  which  we 

are,  we  are  ; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong 

in  will 
lostrive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while 

as  yet 't  is  early  morn  : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me, 

sound  upon  the  bugle  horn. 

'T  is  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old, 

the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying 

over  Locksley  Hall  ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  over- 
looks the  sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into 
cataracts. 


'T  IS  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  (f'e.inis  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  H.-»ll." 


82 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement, 

ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly 

to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising 

thro'  the  mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-fiies  tangled  in 

a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nour- 
ishing a  youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the 
long  result  of  Time  ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like   a 

fruitful  land  reposed  ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the 

promise  that  it  closed  : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human 

eye  could  see  ; 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 

wonder  that  would  be. 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon 

the  robin's  breast ; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets 

himself  another  crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on 

the  burnish'd  dove  ; 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly 

turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 
should  be  for  one  so  young. 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a 
mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and 

speak  the  truth  to  me. 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my 

being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a 

color  and  a  light. 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 

northern  night. 

And  she  tum'd  —  her  bosom  shaken  with 
a  sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 

All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark 
of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying,  ' '  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing 
they  should  do  me  wrong  "  ; 

Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?" 
weeping,  ' '  I  have  loved  thee  long. " 


Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  tum'd 
it  in  his  glowing  hands  ; 

Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself 
in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote 
on  all  the  chords  with  might ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Sell',  that,  trembling, 
pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we 

hear  the  copses  ring. 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with 

the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we 
watch  the  stately  ships, 

And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the 
touching  of  the  lips. 

0  my   cousin,    shallow-hearted !  0  my 

Amy,  mine  no  more  ! 
0  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !  0  the 

barren,  barren  shore  ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than 

all  songs  liave  sung. 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to 

a  shrewish  tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ?  —  having 
known  me  —  to  decline 

On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  nar- 
rower heart  than  mine  ! 

Yet  it  shall  be  :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his 

level  day  by  day. 
What  is  fine  within  thee  gi-owing  coarse 

to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art 

mated  with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have 

weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall 
have  spent  its  novel  force. 

Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little 
dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this  ?  his  eyes  are  heavy  :  think 
not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 

Go  to  him  :  it  is  thy  duty  :  kiss  him  : 
take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain 

is  overwrought  : 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch 

him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


83 


"  Many  an  evening^  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips." 


He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things 

to  understand  — 
I'cttcr  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  the'  I 

slew  thee  with  my  hand  ! 

l^ctter  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from 

the  heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent 

in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  thatsin  against 

the  strength  of  youth  ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from 

the  living  truth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from 

honest  Nature's  rule  ! 
Cursedbethagold  thatgildsthe  straiten'd 

forehead  of  the  fool  ! 


Well  —  't  is  w^ell  that  I  should  bluster !  — 
Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved — 

Would  to  God  —  for  I  had  loved  thee 
more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that 
which  bears  but  bitter  fiuit  ? 

I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my 
heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such 
length  of  years  should  come 

As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the 
clanging  rookery  home. 

Where   is  comfort  ?   in  division   of  the 

reconls  of  the  mind  ? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  h  r, 

as  I  knew  her,  kind  ? 


84 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 


I  remember  one  that  perish'd  :  sweetly 
did  she  speak  and  move  : 

Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look 
at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her 

for  the  love  she  bore  ? 
No  —  she  never  loved  me  truly  :  love  is 

love  for  evermore. 

Comfort  ?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils  !  this 
is  truth  the  poet  sings. 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  re- 
membering happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it, 
lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof. 

In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when 
the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou 

art  staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and 

the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  point- 
ing to  his  drunken  sleep, 

To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the 
tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never," 
whisper'd  by  the  phantom  years. 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the 
ringing  of  thine  ears  ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  an- 
cient kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow  :  get 
thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace  ;  for 

a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'T  is  a  purer  life  than  thine  ;  a  lip  to 

drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  do\vn  :  my  latest 

rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me 

from  the  mother's  breast. 

0,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with 

a  dearness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his  :  it  will  be 

worthy  of  the  two. 

0,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy 

petty  part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching 

down  a  daughter's  heart. 


"  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings 
—  she  herself  was  not  exempt  — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd  " —  Perish 
in  thy  self-contempt ! 

Overlive    it  —  lower    yet  —  be    happy  ! 

wherefore  should  I  care  ? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  1 

wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to, 
lighting  upon  days  like  these  ? 

Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens 
but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng' d  with  suitors,  all 

the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy  :  what  is  that 

which  I  should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on 

the  foeman's  ground. 
When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapor,  and 

the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the 
hurt  that  Honor  feels. 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarl- 
ing at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  bjit  relive  in  sadness  ?    I  will  turn 

that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  0  thou 

wondrous  Mother-Age  ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I 

felt  before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and 

the  tumult  of  my  life  ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that 
the  coming  years  would  yield, 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves 
his  father's  field. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway 
near  and  nearer  drawn. 

Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flar- 
ing like  a  dreary  dawn  ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be 

gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath   the   light  he  looks  at,  in 

among  the  throngs  of  men  ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever 
reaping  something  new  : 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest 
of  the  things  that  they  shall  do  : 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 


85 


'  Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  clown  :  my  latest  lival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast.' 


For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human 

eye  could  see, 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 

wonder  that  would  be  ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  ar- 
gosies of  magic  sails, 

I^i'ots  of  the  purf)le  twilight,  dropping 
down  with  costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and 
there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 

From  the  nations'  airy  navies  gi-appling 
in  the  central  blue  ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the 
south-wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plun- 
ging thro'  the  thunder-storm  ; 


Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer, 
and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd. 

In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation 
of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall 
hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe. 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt 
in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping 

thro'  me  left  me  dry, 
Ijeft  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  \vl\ 

me  with  the  jaundiced  eye  ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things 
here  are  out  of  joint  : 

Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creep- 
ing on  from  point  to  point : 


■d^ 


86 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 


Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion, 

creeping  nigher, 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind 

a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  in- 
creasing purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd 
with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not 
harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 

Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for 
ever  like  a  boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers, 
and  I  linger  on  the  shore, 

And  the  individual  withei-s,  and  the 
world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers, 
and  he  bears  a  laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward 
the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sound- 
ing on  the  bugle-horn. 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  ! 
target  for  their  scorn  : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on 
such  a  moulder'd  string  ? 

I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have 
loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  !  wo- 
man's pleasure,  woman's  pain  — 

Nature  made  them  blinder  motions 
bounded  in  a  shallower  brain  : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy 
passions,  match'd  with  mine, 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as 
water  unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  noth- 
ing.    Ah,  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my 
life  began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my 
father  evil-starr'd  ;  — 

I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  self- 
ish uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  —  there  to 
wander  far  away, 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gate- 
ways of  the  day. 


Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow 
moons  and  happy  skies, 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in 
cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an 

European  flag. 
Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland, 

swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag  ; 

Droops  the  heavy  -  blossom'd  bower, 
hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-pur- 
ple spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment 
more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the 
thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall 
have  scope  and  breathing-space  ; 

J  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall 
reaf  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall 
dive,  and  they  shall  run, 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and 
hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun  ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap 
the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  ovei 
miserable  books  — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy  !  but  I 
knoic  my  words  are  wild. 

But  I  count  the  gray  bnrbai  ian  lower  than 
the  Christian  child. 

/,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant 

of  our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a 

beast  with  lower  pains  ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage  —  what  to 

me  M'ere  sun  or  clime  ? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost 

files  of  time  — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  shoulil 

perish  one  by  one. 
Than   that  earth    should  stand  at  ga-'c 

like  Joshua's  moon  in  i\jalon  ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Foi- 
ward,  forward  let  us  range. 

Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down 
the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 


GODIVA. 


87 


Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep 

into  the  younger  day  : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle 

of  Cathay. 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help 
me  as  when  life  begun  : 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash 
the  lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun  — 

0,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit 

hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro' 

all  my  fancy  yet. 


Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  fare- 
well to  Locksley  Hall  ! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now 
for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  black^ 
ening  over  heath  and  holt, 

Cramming  ail  the  blast  before  it,  in  its 
breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain 
or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow  ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  sea- 
ward, and  I  go. 


'  Comes  a  vapor  from  the  marten,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt. 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it.  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt." 


GODIVA. 

I  waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry ; 

I  hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the 

bridge. 
To  watch  the  three  tall  spires  ;  and  there 

I  shaped 
The  city's  ancient  legend  into  this  :  — 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that  prate 
Of  rights   and  wrongs,  have  loved  the 

jieople  well, 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax'd  ;  but 

she 
Did  more,  and  tmderwent,  and  overcame, 
The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 
Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who  ruled 
In  Coventry  :  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 


Upon   his   town,  and  all   the  mothers 

brought 
Their  children,  clamoring,  "  If  we  pay, 

we  starve  !  " 
She   sought  her  lord,  and  found  him, 

where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his  hair 
A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their 

tears. 
And  pray'd  him,  "  If  they  pay  this  tax, 

they  starve." 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amazed, 
"  You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 
For  such   as  these?"  —  "But  I  would 

die,"  said  she. 
He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by 

Paul : 
Then  fillip'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear  ; 


THE   TWO   VOICES. 


" 0  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk  !  "  — "Alas  ! " 

she  said, 
"  But  prove  mewhat  it  is  I  would  not  do." 
And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's  hand, 
He  answer'd,  " Eide yoiinaked thro'  the 

town. 
And  I  repeal  it"  ;  and  nodding,  as  in 

scorn. 
He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his 

dogs.  1 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind,  ! 

As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  , 

blow,  I 

Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour,    I 
Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth,  i 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trum- 
pet, all  I 
The  hard  condition  ;  but  that  she  would 

loose 
The  people  :  therefore,  as  they  loved  her 

well,  ! 

From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  i 

■     the  street,  j 

No  eye  look  down,  she  passing  ;  but  that  j 

all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  win-  ' 

dow  barr'd. 
Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower, 

and  there  | 

Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt. 
The  grim  Earl's  gift ;  but  ever  at  a  breath 
She  linger'd,  looking  like  a  summer  moon 
Half-dipt  in  cloud  :  anon  she  shook  her 

head. 
And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her 

knee  ; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste  ;  adown  the  stair 
Stole  on  ;  and,  like  a  creeping  sunbeam, 

slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 
The  gateway  ;  there  she  found  her  pal- 
frey trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 
Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with 

chastity  : 
The  deep  airlisten'droundherasshe rode, 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed 

for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the 

spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see  :  the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek   flame:    her  palfrey's 

footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  thro'  her  pulses  :  the  blind 

walls 
Were   full   of  chinks   and  holes  ;   and 

overhead 


Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared  :  but 

she 
Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from  the 

field 
Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archways  in  the 

wall. 
Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with 

chastity  : 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless 

earth. 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come. 
Boring  a  little  augur-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd  —  but  his  eyes,  before  they  had 

their  will. 
Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his  head. 
And  dropt  before  him.     So  the  Powers, 

who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancell'da  sense  misused ; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd  :  and  all 

at  once, 
With  twelve  gieat  shocks  of  sound,  the 

shameless  noon 
Was  clash'd  and  hammer'd  from  a  hun- 
dred towers. 
One  after  one  :  but  even  then  she  gain'd 
Her  bower  ;  whence  reissuing,  robed  and 

crown' d. 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 

THE   TWO   VOICES. 

A  STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
"  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery. 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ? " 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said  ; 
"  Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply  ; 

"  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 

Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

"  An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk  :  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plate^  of  sapphire  mail. 

"He  dried  his  wings  :  like  gauze  they 

grew : 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew." 

I  said,  "When  first  the  world  began. 
Young  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran, 
And  in  the  sixth  .she  moulded  man. 


THE   TWO   VOICES. 


89 


'  Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt." 


'*  She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast." 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied  ; 

"  Self- blinded  are  you  by  your  pride  : 

Look  up  thro'  night :  the  world  is  wide. 

"  This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse, 

That  in  a  boundless  universe 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

"Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and  fears 
Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres  ? " 

It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind  : 

"  Tno'  thou  wert  scatter'd  to  the  wind. 

Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind." 


Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall : 
"  No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all." 

To  which  he  answer'd  scoffingly  ; 

"  Good  soul  !  suppose  I  grant  it  thee, 

Who  '11  weep  for  thy  deficiency  ? 

"  Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense. 

When  thy  peculiar  difference 

Is  cancell'd  in  the  world  of  sense  ? " 

I   would  have  said,   "Thou   canst  not 

know," 
But  my  full  heart,  that  work'd  below, 
Rain'd  thro'  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me  : 
"  Thou  art  so  steep'd  in  miseiy, 
Surely  't  were  better  not  to  be. 


90 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


"  Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 
!JTor  any  train  of  reason  keep  : 
Thou   canst  not  think,  but  thou  wilt 
weep." 

I  said,  "  The  years  with  change  advance  : 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

"Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might  take, 
Ev'n  yet."   But  he:   "What  drug  can 

make 
A  wither'd  palsy  cease  to  shake  ? " 

I  wept,  "Tho'  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow  ; 

"And  men,  thro'  novel  spheres  of  thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought, 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I  am  not." 

' '  Yet, "  said  the  secret  voice, ' '  some  time. 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

"  Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn  for  light, 
Rapt  after  heaven's  starry  flight. 
Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and  night. 

"  Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells. 
The  furzy  prickle  fire  the  dells, 
The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells." 

I  said  that  "all  the  years  invent ; 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

"  Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho'  watching  from  a  ruin'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power  ? " 

"The  highest-mounted  mind,"  he  said, 
' '  Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

"  Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main  ? 

"  Or  make  that  morn,  from  his  cold  crown 
And  ciystal  silence  creeping  down, 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and  town  ? 

"  Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 
Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 
In  midst  of  knowledge,  dream'd  not  yet. 


"  Thou  hast  not  gain'd  a  real  height. 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light. 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

"  'T  were  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak, 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak, 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

"Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 

Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  resign'd, 

A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind." 

I  said,  "When  I  am  gone  away, 
*  He  dared  not  tarry,'  men  will  say, 
Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay." 

"  This  is  more  vile,"  he  made  reply, 
"  To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live  and  sigh. 
Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

' '  Sick  art  thou  —  a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

"  Do  men  love  thee  ?  Art  thou  so  bound 
To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground  ? 

"  The  memorj'  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner'd  Autumn-sheaf. 

"  Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust ; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  fill'd  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just." 

"Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,"  I  cried, 
"  From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride  ! 

"Nay  —  rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm'd  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I  yearn'd  for  human  praise. 

"  When,  wide  in  soul  and  bold  of  tongiie, 
Among  the  tents  I  paused  and  sung, 
The  distant  battle  flash'd  and  rung. 

"  I  sung  the  joyful  Paean  clear, 
And,  sitting,  burnish'd  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear  — 

"  Waiting  to  strive  a  happy  strife. 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife, 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life  — 

"  Some  hidden  principle  to  move. 

To  put  together,  part  and  prove. 

And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and  love  — 


THE   TWO   VOICES. 


91 


"  As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  s]iace  for  every  human  doubt, 
That  the  whole  mind  might  orb  about  — 

"To  search  thro'  all  I  felt  or  saw, 
The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law  r 

"  At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed. 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed, 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

"To  pass,  when  Life  her  light  withdraws, 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause, 
Nor  in  a  merely  selfish  cause  — 

"  In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own, 
To  ])erish,  wept  for,  honor'd,  known. 
And  like  a  warrior  overthrown  ; 

"  Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious  tears. 
When,  soil'd  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country's  war-song  thrill  his  ears  : 

"  Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke. 
What  time  the  foeman's  line  is  broke. 
And  all  the  war  is  roU'd  in  smoke." 

"  Yea  ! "  said  the  voice,  "  thy  dream  was 

good, 
While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 
It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 

"  If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower. 
Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour  ? 

"Then  comes  the  check,  the  change,  the 

fall. 
Pain  lises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

"  Yet  liadst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
LinkM  month  to  month  with  such  a  chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

"  Thou  hadst  not  between  death  andbirth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 
So  were  thy  labor  little-worth. 

"That    men    with    knowledge    merely 

play'd, 
I  told  thee  —  hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho'  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade  ; 

"  Mnch  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and  bHiid,     "  Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Named  man,  mayhopesometruth  to  find,    Hore  and  forcborc,  ainl  diti  not  tiro, 
'i'liat  bears  relation  to  the  mind.  Like  Stephen,  an  uninienclu'd  lire 


"  For  every  worm  benea;th  the  moon 
Draws  different  threads,  and  late  and  sooa! 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

"Cry,  faint  not :  either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn. 
Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  mom. 

"Cr}', faintnot,  climb :  thesummitsslope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope. 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to  cope. 

"Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines, 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

"  I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

"  If  straight  thy  track,  or  if^oblique. 
Thou  know'st  not.     Shadows  thou  dost 

strike. 
Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like  ; 

"And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor. 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 

' '  Than  angels.    Cease  to  wail  and  brawl ! 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl  ? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all." 

"0  dull,  one-sided  voice,"  said  I, 
"  Wilt  thou  make  everything  a  lie, 
To  flatter  me  that  I  may  die  ? 

"  I  know  that  age  to  age  succeeds. 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

"I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven. 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven  : 

"  Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gh^am, 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dieam  ; 

"  But  heard,  by  secret  transjiort  led, 
Ev'n  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead, 
The  murmur  of  the  fountein-head  — 


.«  •.. 


92 


THE  TWO  Voices. 


"  He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 
Nov  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 
Tho'  cursed  and  scoru'd,  and  bruised  with 
stones  : 

"But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace, 
He  pray'd,  and  from  a  liappy  place 
God's  gloiy  smote  him  on  the  face." 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt : 

"  Not  that  the  groundsof  hope  were  fix'd, 

The  elements  were  kindlier  mix'd." 

I  said,  ' '  I  toil  beneath  the  curse. 
But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 
I  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

"And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 
I  knit  a  hundred  others  new  : 

"Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense. 
Be  fix'd  and  frozen  to  permanence  : 

"  For  I  go,  weak  from  suffering  here  ; 
Naked  I  go,  and  void  of  cheer  : 
What  is  it  that  I  may  not  fear  ? " 

"Consider  well,"  the  voice  replied, 

"  His  face,  that  twohours  since  hath  died ; 

Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain  or  pride  ? 

"  Will  he  obey  when  one  commands  ? 
Or  answer  should  one  piess  his  hands  ? 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

"  His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast  : 
There  is  no  other  thing  express'd 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

"  His  lips  are  vei-y  mild  and  meek  : 
Tho'  one  should  smite  him  on  the  cheek. 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

"  His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  his  last  embrace. 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race  — 

' '  His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame,  — 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

"  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave. 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rainfe  that  beat  his  grave. 


"  High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim  : 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim  : 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him." 

"  If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,"  I  said, 
"These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and 

dread, 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

"The  sap  dries  up  :  the  plant  declines. 

A  deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 

Know  I  not  Death  ?  the  outward  signs  ? 

' '  I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few  ; 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew. 
And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

"  From  grave  ta  grave  the  shadow  crept : 
In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept : 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 

"The  simple  senses  crown'd  his  head  : 
'  Omega  !  thou  art  Lord,'  they  said, 
'  We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.' 

"Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease. 
Should  that  plain  fact,  as  taught  by  these. 
Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease  ? 

"  Who  forged  that  other  influence, 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence. 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  ? 

"  He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes. 
That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise. 
Not  simple  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

"  Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly  : 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mystery  : 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

"  That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

"  He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A  labor  working  to  an  end. 

"  The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason  :  many  things  pei-plex. 
With  motions,  checks,  and  counterchecks. 

"  He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 
At  such  strange  war  with  something  gooil. 
He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 


THB  TWO   VOICES. 


93 


"Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn, 
Half  shown,  are  broken  and  withdrawn. 

"Ah  !  sure  within  him  and  without. 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  lind  it  out, 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

"  But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain. 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 

' '  The  doubt  would  rest,  I  dare  not  solve. 
Ill  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve." 

As  when  a  billow,  blown  against, 

Falls  back,  the  voice  with  which  I  fenced 

A  little  ceased,  but  recommenced. 

' '  Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father  play'd 
In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade  ?  ^ 

"A  merry  boy  they  called  him  then, 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 

"  Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 

Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man  : 

"  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race. 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face. 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days  : 

"  A  life  of  nothings,  nothing  worth. 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth  ! " 

"  These  words,"  I  said,  "  are  like  the  rest, 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast : 

"  But  if  I  grant,  thou  might'st  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend  — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end  ; 

"  Yet  how  should  I  for  certain  hold, 
B<!cause  my  memory  is  so  cold. 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould  ? 

"  I  cannot  make  this  matter  plain, 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'er  in  vain, 
A  random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

"  It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found, 

Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 

j^Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 


"As  old  mythologies  relate, 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

The  slipping  thro'  from  state  to  state. 

"  As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  ha])pens  then. 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

"  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 
As  one  before,  remember  much, 
Forthose  two  likesmightmeetand  touch. 

' '  But,  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place. 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace  ; 

"  Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 

In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of  night. 

"  Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I  came  — 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame  — 

"  I  might  forget  my  weaker  lot ; 
For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot  ? 
The  haunts  of  memoiy  echo  not. 

"  And  men,  whose  reason  long  was  blind. 
From  cells  of  madness  unconfined. 
Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

"  Much  more,  if  first  I  floated  free, 
As  naked  essence,  must  I  be 
Incompetent  of  memory  : 

"  For  memory  dealing  hut  ^vith  time, 
And  he  with  matter,  should  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime  ? 

"  Moreover,  something  is  or  seems. 
That  touches  nie  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 

"  Of  something  felt,  like  something  here; 
Of  something  douf,  I  know  not  where  ; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare." 

Thestill  voicelaugh'd.  "I  talk,"  said  he, 
"  Not  with  thy  dreams.  Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a  reality." 

"But  thou,"  said  I,   "hast  miss'd  thy 

mark,      ••        -  <., 

Who  sought'st  to  wreck  my  mortal  are, 
By  making  all  the  horixon  dark. 


94 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


"  Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new  ? 

'"Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 
No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 
Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death. 

"  'T  is  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 

0  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant ; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want." 

1  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 
Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn, 
"  Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn." 

And  I  arose,  and  I  released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften' d  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal. 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God's  house  the  people  prest : 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest, 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  guest. 

One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child. 
With  measured  footfall  firm  and  mild. 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure, 
The  little  maiden  walk'd  demure. 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 

These  three  made  unity  so  sweet. 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat. 
Remembering  itsancient  heat. 

I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on  : 
I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none  : 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A  second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A  little  whis))er  silver-cl^r, 

A  murmur,  "Be  of  better  cheer." 

As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

"  I  .see  the  end,  and  know  the  good." 

A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

"I  may  not  speak  of  what  I  know." 


Like  an  iEolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes  : 

Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side  • 
"  What  isitthouknowest,  sweet  voice  ? " 

I  cried. 
"  A  hidden  hope,"  the  voice  replied  : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power 
Broke,  like  the  rainbow  from  the  shower, 

To  feel,  altho'  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  went. 
And  Nature's  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I  woncjer'd  at  the  bounteous  hours,- 
The  slow  result  of  winter  showers  : 
You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for  flowers. 

I  wonder'd,  while  I  paced  along  : 
The  woods  were  fill'd  so  full  with  song, 
There  seem'd  no  room  for  sense  of  wrong. 

So  variously  seem'd  all  things  wrought, 
I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought ; 

And  wherefore  ratlier  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice, 
Than  him  that  said,  "  Rejoice  !  rejoice  !" 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

0  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak  : 

A  pleasant  hour  has  past  away 
While,  dreaming  on  your  damask  cheek, 

The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 
As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming  —  and,  behind, 

A  summer  cri.sp  with  shining  woods. 
And  I  too  dream'd,  until  at  last 

Across  my  fancy,  brooding  wann. 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  ]iast. 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 
And  would  you  have  the  thought  I  had, 

And  see  the  vision  that  I  saw, 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


95 


Then  take  the  broidery- frame,  and  add 
A  crimson  to  tlie  quaint  Macaw, 

And  I  will  tell  it.     Turn  your  face. 
Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye  — 

The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their  place, 
And  order' d  words  asunder  fly. 

THE  SLEEPIjrtJ   PALACE. 


The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 

Clothes  and  reclothes  the  happy  plains ; 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curl'd, 

Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows  come. 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 


Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 

On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower. 

On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires, 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower. 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 


Koof-haunting  martins  warm  their  eggs  : 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay'd. 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily  :  no  sound  is  made. 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 
Thau  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings. 

That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the  wall. 


Here  sits  the  Butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees,  half-drain'd  ;  and 
there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task. 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair  ; 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his  : 

Her  lips  are  sever'd  as  to  speak  : 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss  : 

The  blush  is  fix'd  upon  her  cheek. 


Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 
The  b(,'ams,  that  thro'  the  Oriel  shine. 

Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 
And  beaker  brimm'd  with  noble  wine. 


Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps. 
Grave  faces  gather'd  in  a  ring. 

His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 
He  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 


All  round  a  hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood  ; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes,        '■ 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as  blood  ; 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wall  of  green 

Close-matted,  burr  and  brake  and  brier, 
And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen, 

High  up,  the  topmost  palace-spire. 


When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again. 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh. 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men  ? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain. 

As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and  Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 

THE   SLEEPING   BEAUTY. 


Year  after  year  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone. 
Across  the  y)urpled  coverlet. 

The  maiden's  jet-black  hair  has  gi'own, 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl : 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm. 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 


The  silk  star-broider'd  coverlid  ' 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 
Languidly  ever  ;  and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets  downward  roll'd, 
Glows  forth  each  softly-shadow'd  arm 

With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright : 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 


She  sleeps  :  her  breathings  are  not  heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps  :  on  either  hand  upswells 

The  gold-fringed  jullow  lightly  prest : 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

A  periect  form  in  perfect  test. 


96 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


THE   ARRIVAL. 
I. 

All  precious  things,  discover'd  late, 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth  ; 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden  worth. 
He  ti'avels  far  from  other  skies  — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks  — 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 

II. 
The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  da3's  to  pass. 
Are  wither'd  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scatter'd  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead  : 

"  They  perish'd  in  their  daring  deeds." 
This  proverb  flashes  thro'  his  head, 

"The  many  fail  :  the  one  succeeds." 

III. 
He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he  seeks  ; 

He  breaks  the  liedge  :  he  enters  there  : 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks  : 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair  ; 
For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 

About  his  path,  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk. 

And  whisper' d  voices  at  his  ear. 

IV. 

More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind  : 

The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 
Beats  (piick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 
His  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark. 

He  stoops  —  to  kiss  her  —  on  his  knee. 
"  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark. 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must  be  ! " 

THE  REVIVAL. 


A  TOUCH,  a  kiss  !   the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks. 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt. 

And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks  ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A  breeze  thro'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall. 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 


The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 
The  butler  drank,  the  steward  scrawl' d,  | 


The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The    parrot    scream' d,    the    peacock 
squall'd. 
The  maid  and  page  renew'd  their  strife, 
The  palace   bang'd,  and   buzz'd  and 
clack  t. 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 


And  last  with  these  the  king  aAvoke, 

And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear'd. 
And  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  face,  and 
,  spoke, 

' '  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard  ! 
How  say  you  ?  we  have  sle})t,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'T  was  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 


"  Pardy,"  return'd  the  king,  "  but  still 

My  joints  are  somewhat  stifl"  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  niention'd  half  an  hour  ago  ? " 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain. 

In  courteous  words  return'd  reply  : 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain. 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 


And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old  : 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim. 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  foUow'd  him. 


"I  'd  sleep  another  hundred  }'ears, 

0  love,  for  such  another  kiss"  ; 
"0  wake  for  ever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"0  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar. 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 


"  0  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  !  " 
"  0  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  ! ' 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


97 


"  How  say  you  ?  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 
My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 


"  0  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  !  " 
' '  0  love,  thy  k  iss  would  wake  the  dead ! ' 

And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 
Of  vapor  buoy'd  the  crescent-bark. 

And,  riipt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change, 
The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 


"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 

And  whithergoest  thou,  tell  me  where  ?' 
"0  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day. 

Thro'  all  the  world  she  follow'd  him. 


MORAL. 

I. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay. 
And  if  you  find  no  moral  there. 


Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say, 
What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 

0,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The  wildweed-flower  that  simply  blows? 

And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ? 


But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead, 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 
According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 
And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend  ; 
So  't  were  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 

Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 


L  ENVOI. 

I. 

You  shake  your  head.    A  random  string 
Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 


98 


AMPHION. 


Well  —  were  it  not  a  pleasant  thing 

To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends  ; 
To  pass  with  all  onr  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men  ; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 

And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep  again  ; 
To  sleep  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars, 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more, 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars, 

As  wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore  ; 
And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 

The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  hours. 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow. 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers  ; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes  ; 
For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth, 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 


So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 
Thro'  sunny  decads  new  and  strange, 

Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The  flower  and  quintessence  of  change. 


Ah,  yet  would  I  —  and  would  I  might ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take  — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I  might  kiss  those  eyes  awake  ! 
For,  am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not  care  ; 
You  'd  have  my  moral  from  the  song, 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  there  : 
And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro'  and  thro'. 
To  search  a  meaning  for  the  song. 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you  ; 
Nor  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 

All-graceful  head,  so  richly  cui'l'd, 
And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 


For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 

Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour, 
And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 

In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower, 
What   eyes,    like   thine,  have  waken'd 
hopes  ? 

What  lips,  like  thine,  so  sweetly  join'd  ? 
Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 

The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind  ; 
Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved. 

Yet  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep  to  me  ; 
A  sleep  by  kisses  undissolved. 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see  : 


But  break  it.     In  the  name  of  wife. 
And  in  the  rights  that  name  may  give. 

Are  clasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life, 
And  that  for  which  1  care  to  live. 


So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay. 

And,  if  you  find  a  meaning  there, 
0  whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 

"  What  wonder,  if  he  thhiks  me  fair  ? " 
What  wonder  1  was  all  unwise. 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight 
Like  long-tail'd  birds  of  Paradise, 

That  float  thro'  Heaven,  and  cannot 
light  ? 
Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 

By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue  — 
But  take  it  —  earnest  wed  with  sport, 

And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


AMPHION. 

My  father  left  a  park  to  me. 

But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 
A  garden  too  with  scarce  a  tree. 

And  waster  than  a  waiTen  : 
Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call, 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land. 
And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

0  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great 

In  days  of  old  Amphion, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate. 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion  ! 
And  had  I  lived  when  song  was  gi'f  at, 

And  legs  of  trees  were  limber, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate. 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber  ! 

'T  is  said  he  had  a  tuneful  tongue. 

Such  happy  intonation. 
Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 

He  left  a  small  plantation  ; 
Wherever  in  a  lonely  grove 

He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes. 
The  gouty  oak  began  to  move, 

And  flounder  into  liornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  bushy  crown. 

And,  as  tradition  teaches. 
Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches  ; 


ST.   AGNES'   EVE. 


99 


And  biiony-vine  and  ivy-\vreath 
Ran  forward  to  liis  rhyming, 

And  from  the  valleys  underneath 
Came  little  copses  cUnibing. 

Tlie  linden  broke  her  ranks  and  rent 

Tlic  woodbine  wreaths  that  bind  her, 
.And  down  the  middle  buzz  !  she  went 

With  all  her  bees  behind  her  : 
Tlie  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded. 
The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 

By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shot  alder  from  the  wave, 

Came  yews,  a  dismal  coterie  ; 
Each  pluck'd  his  one  foot  from  the  grave, 

Poussetting  with  a  sloe-ti'ee  : 
Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine. 

The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow. 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plump'd  the  pine 

From  many  a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  was  n't  it  a  sight  to  see, 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended, 
Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree, 

The  country-side  descended  ; 
And  shepherds  from  the  mountain-eaves 

Look'd    down,     half  -  pleased,     half- 
frighten'd. 
As  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 

The  random  sunshine  lighten'd  ! 

0,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men, 

And  wanton  without  measure  ; 
So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then. 

You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 
Twang  out,  my  fiddle  !  shake  the  twigs  ! 

And  make  her  dance  attendance  ; 
Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stiff-set  sprigs. 

And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 

'T  is  vain  !  in  such  a  brassy  age 

I  could  not  move  a  thistle  ; 
The  very  sparrows  in  the  liedge 

Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle  ; 
Or  at  tlie  most,  when  three-parts-sick 

With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 
A  jacka-ss  heehaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I  hear  ?  a  sound 
Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading  ; 

0  Lord  !  —  t  is  in  my  neighbor's  ground, 
The  modem  Muses  reading. 

They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

And  Works  on  Gardening  thro'  there. 


And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees, 
-  To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither'd  Misses  !  how  they  prose 

O'er  books  of  tnivell'd  seamen, 
And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 

From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 
They  read  in  arbors  dipt  and  cut. 

And  alleys,  faded  places. 
By  s(iuares  of  tropic  summer  shut 

And  warm'd  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  careful  dirt, 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy  ; 
Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt. 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 
Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 

That  blows  upon  its  mountain, 
The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 

Beside  its  native  fountain. 

And  I  must  work  thro'  months  of  toil. 

And  years  of  cultivation. 
Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 

To  grow  my  own  plantation. 
I  '11  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

1  will  not  vex  my  bosom  : 
Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 

A  little  garden  blossom. 


ST.    AGNES'   EVE. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies. 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  gi'ound  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark. 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am. 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  0  Lord  !  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  staWight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 


100 


silt    GALAHAD. 


-  My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes : 
May  my  soul  follow  soon  I  '* 


He  lifts  me  to  tne  golden  doors  ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strews  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  np  !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 
My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 


My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trum]iet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The    splinter'd  spear-shafts   crack    and 

fly. 

The  horse  and  rider  reel  : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall  ! 
For  them  1  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall  : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

Mykneesarebow'din  crypt  and  shrine : 


EDWARD   GRAY. 


101 


I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 
Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  team, 
Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 

So  keep  I  fair  tliro'  laith  and  prayer 
A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormj'  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims. 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hyrnns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride  ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there  ; 
Tlie  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide. 

The  taper.-!  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth. 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean. 
The  shrill  bell  lings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark  ; 
I  leap  on  board  :  no  helmsman  steers  : 

1  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars. 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides. 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go. 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn. 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and 
mail  ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads. 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear  ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  m«et  rne  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cea.se, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams. 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace. 

Whose  odors  haunt  !ny  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand. 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear. 


This  weight  and  size,   this  heart  and 
eyes. 
Are  touch' d,  are  tum'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky. 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod. 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 
"  0  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange  ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
AU-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide. 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


EDWARD   GRAY. 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town 

Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 
"And  have  you  lost  your  heart  ?  "  she 
said  ; 
"And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward 
Gray?" 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  tum'd  away  : 

"Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  more 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 

"Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well. 
Against  her  father's  and  mother's  will  : 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 

"  Shy  .she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold  ; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the 
sea ; 
Fill'd  I  was  with  folly  and  spite. 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

"Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said  ! 

Cnielly  came  they  back  to-day  : 
'You're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  I  said, 

'  To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray.' 

"There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass  — 
Whi.sper'd,  '  Listen  to  my  despair  : 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did  : 
Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair  ! ' 

"Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 

'  Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ; 
And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  ! 


102 


WILL   WATElirROOF  a   LYKICAL   MONOLOGUE. 


"  All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide. 
Until  I  find  the  lioly  Grail." 


"  Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  from  tree  to  tree  : 

But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more. 
Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

"  Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away  : 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ! 
And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  !  " 


WILL    WATERPROOF'S    LYRICAL 
MONOLOGUE. 

MADE   AT   THE  COCK. 

0  PLUMP  liead-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
How  goes  the  time  ?     'T  is  five  o'clock. 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port : 


But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 
You  set  before  chance-comers. 

But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 
On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind. 
And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 

Her  influence  on  the  mind. 
To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes, 

Ere  they  be  half-forgotten  ; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times. 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

I  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 

Her  laurel  in  the  wine. 
And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips. 

These  favor'd  lips  of  mine  ; 
Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 

New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom. 


WILL  waterproof's  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


103 


And  barren  commonplaces  break 
In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board  ; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 
Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans, 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 
And  that  child's  heart  within  the  man's 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro'  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns, 

By  many  pleasant  ways, 
Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 

The  current  of  my  days  : 
I  kiss  the  lips  I  once  have  kiss'd  ; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer  ; 
And  softly,  thro'  a  vinous  mist, 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I  grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 

Unboding  critic-pen. 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vexes  public  men. 
Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  cry 

For  that  which  all  deny  them  — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry, 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wings, 
I  will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Half-views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood  ; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather  ; 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes  ; 

If  old  things,  there  are  new  ; 
Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shapes, 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 
Let  raffs  Ynt  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme. 

We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons. 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 

We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid  ; 

With  fair  horizons  bound  : 
Tliis  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and  shade 

Comes  out,  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And,  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
I  look  at  all  things  as  they  are, 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory. 


Head-waiter,  honor'd  by  the  guest 

Half-mused,  or  reeling  ripe. 
The  pint,  you  brought  me,  was  the  best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise. 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiflFer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place  ? 

Or  do  my.  peptics  differ  ? 

For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 

This  wheel  within  my  head. 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 

Thro'  every  convolution. 

For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay, 
Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay  : 
Each  month,  a  birthday  coming  on. 

We  drink  defying  trouble. 
Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double  ; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept, 

Had  relish  fiery-new. 
Or,  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo  ; 
Or  stow'd  (when  classic  Canning  died) 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call, 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all  : 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker. 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 

The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout. 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 
He  looks  not  like  tho  common  breed 

That  with  the  napkin  dally  ; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Tlian  modem  poultry  drop, 
SU'.ytt  forward  on  a  firmer  leg, 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop  ; 


104 


WILL  WATERPROOFS  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


Ujion  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 
Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 

Sipt  wine  from  silver,  jjraising  God, 
And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  soraething-pottle-bodied  boy. 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw  : 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and  good. 

Flew  over  roof  and  casement  : 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe  and  spire, 

And  follow'd  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire. 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  bore. 

Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter. 
One  fix'd  for  ever  at  the  door, 

And  one  became  head-waiter. 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaks  ! 
'T  is  but  a  steward  of  the  can. 

One  shade  more  plump  than  common  ; 
As  just  and  mere  a  serving-man 

As  any,  bom  of  woman. 

I  ranged  too  high  :  what  draws  me  down 

Into  the  common  day  ? 
Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown. 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay  ? 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first. 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit  (my  empty  glass  reversed). 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife 

I  take  myself  to  task  ; 
Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 

1  leave  an  empty  flask  : 
For  I  had  hope,  by  something  rare. 

To  prove  myself  a  poet  : 
But,  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began. 

Till  they  be  gather'd  up  ; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can. 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup  : 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not. 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches  ; 


And  most,  of  sterling  Morth,  is  what 
Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone  ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  't  is  gone, 

'T  is  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
'T  is  gone  :  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces. 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  ciypt 

Of  darkeu'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more  ; 
With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 

From  many  a  tavern -door. 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits. 

From  misty  men  of  letters  ; 
The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits  — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet's  words  and  looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow  : 
Nor  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show  ; 
But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-wami'd, 

He  llash'd  his  random  speeches  ; 
Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd 

His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  for  ever  with  the  past. 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth  ! 
For  should  I  prize  thee,   couldst   thou 
last. 

At  half  thy  real  worth  ? 
I  hold  it  good,  good  things  should  pass  : 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel : 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 

Head-waiter  of  the  chop-house  here. 

To  which  1  most  resort, 
I  too  must  part  :  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this,  thou  shalt  from  all  things  suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter  ; 
And,  wheresoe'cr  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots  : 
Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 

Go  down  among  the  pots  : 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN  GREECE. 


105 


We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot  ; 
Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-aiid-hot ; 
To  come  and  go,  and  come  again, 

Returning  like  the  pewit, 
And  watch' d  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies  ; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 

The  comers  of  thine  eyes  : 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes. 
Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late  guest. 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor, 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more  ; 
No  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of  Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven  : 
But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  underneath, 

A  pint-pot,  neatly  graven. 


TO 


AFTER   READING   A   LIFE  AND   LETTERS. 

"  Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Shakespeare's  Epitaph. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name, 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now, 
And  gain'd  a  laurel  for  your  brow 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  claim  ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A  life  that  moves  to  gi-acious  ends 
Thro'  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice  : 

And  you  have  miss'd  the  irreverent  doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown  : 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 
But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 

Begins  the  scandal  and  tha  cry  : 

"  Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not  show  : 
Break  lock  and  seal  :  betray  the  trust : 
Keep  nothing  sacred  :  't  is  but  just 

The  many-headed  beast  should  know." 


Ah  shameless  !  for  he  did  but  sing 
A  song  that  pleased  us  from  its  worth  ; 
No  public  lite  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best  : 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 
My  Shakespeare's  curse  on  clown  and 
knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier. 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 

And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree. 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory's  temple-gates. 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd  ! 


TO    E.    L.,   ON    HIS    TRAVELS  IN 
GREECE. 

Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Peneian  pass. 

The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  fair, 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen. 
You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 

I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there  : 

And  trust  me  while  I  tum'd  the  page. 
And  track'd  you  still  on  classic  ground, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd 

And  glisten'd  —  here  and  there  alone 
The   broad-limb'd   Gods    at    random 
thrown 

By  fountain-urns  ;  —  and  Naiads  oar'd 

A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars  ;  on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell  ; 

And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom 

From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks. 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks. 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


106 


LADY   CLARE. 


LADY  CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn  : 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they  : 

They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  morn  : 
God's  blessing  on  the  day  ! 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth. 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair  ; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth. 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare, 


In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 
Said,  ' '  Who  was  this  that  went  from 
thee  ? " 

"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"  To-moriow  he  weds  with  me." 

"0  God  be  thank'd  !"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
"  That  all  comes  roiind  so  just  aud 
fair : 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands. 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my 
nurse  ? " 
Said  Lady  Clare,   "that  ye  speak  so 
wild  ? " 


'  Lord  Ronald  broug^ht  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  L:icly  Clare." 


V 


THE   LOED   OF   BURLEIGH. 


107 


"As  God 's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  I  speak  the  truth  :  you  are  my  child. 

"The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my 
breast  ; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread  ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 
0  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true. 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life. 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 

When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I  'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  brooch  of  gold. 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said,  "  Not  so  :  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man. " 

"Nay  now,  what  faith  ?"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
"And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 

"Tho'  I  should  die  to-night." 

"Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear  ! 

Alas,  my  child,  Isinn'd  for  thee." 
"0  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"Yet  here  's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear. 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so. 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head. 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down. 
With  i^  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 

I^apt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  foUow'd  lier  all  the  way. 


Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower : 
"0  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth ! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid. 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ? " 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are  : 

I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed. 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  .said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

0  and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes. 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 
He  turn'd  and  kiss'd  her  where  sh^ 
stood  : 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 
And  I,"  said  he,  "the  next  in  Ijlood — 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  bom. 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  mom, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


THE   LORD   OF   BURLEIGH. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

"  If  my  heart  by  .signs  can  tell. 
Maiden,  I  have  watch'd  thee  daily. 

And  1  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

"There  is  none  I  love  like  thee." 
He  is  but  a  landscape-painter. 

And  a  village  maiden  she. 
He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter, 

Pres.ses  his  without  reproof: 
Leads  her  to  the  village  altar. 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 
"  I  can  make  no  marriage  present : 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 
Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 

And  I  love  thee  more  than  life." 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 

See  the  lordly  castles  stand  : 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing. 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 
From  deep  thought  himself  he  rousesi, 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 
"  Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 

Where,  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell." 


108 


SIK  LAUNCELOT   AND   QUEEN   GUINEVEEE. 


So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse, 
Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 

Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers  ; 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 

Parks  and  order'd  gardens  gi'eat, 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 
All  he  shows  her  makes  lain  dearer : 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer, 

"Where   tliey  twain  will  spend  their 
days. 
0  but  she  will  love  him  truly  ! 

He  shall  iiave  a  cheerful  home  ; 
She  will  order  all  things  duly. 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  gi-eatly. 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately. 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns  ; 
Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 

Than  all  those  she  saw  before  : 
Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 

Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 
And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur. 

When  they  answer  to  his  call, 
While  he  treads  with  footstep  firmer, 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 
And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly. 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 
Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

"All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty. 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free. 
Not  a  lord  in  all  the  county 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin  : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes, 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove  : 
But  he  clasp'd  her  like  a  lover. 

And  he  cheer'd  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho'  at  times  her  spirit  sank  : 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meekness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank  : 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he, 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady. 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 
But  a  trouble  weigh'd  upon  her. 

And  perplex'd  her,  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burden  of  an  honor 

Unto  which  she  was  not  bom. 


Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter. 

And  she  murmur'd,  "  0,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape-painter, 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me  !  " 
So  she  droop'd  and  droop'd  before  him, 

Fading  slowly  from  his  side  : 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 

Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early. 

Walking  up  and  pacing  down. 
Deeply  mourn'd  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her. 

And  he  look'd  at  her  and  said, 
"  Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her. 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed." 
Then  her  peoi)le,  softly  treading. 

Bote  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain. 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between. 
And  far,  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elmtree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song  : 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong  : 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong  : 

By  gi'assy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran. 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year. 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer. 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

Sheseem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring : 
A  gown  of  f^rass-green  silk  she  wore. 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before  ; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 
Now  by  some  tinkluig  rivulet, 


THE  VISION   OF  SIN. 


109 


In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set : 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimra'd  the  plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eeiy  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A-  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


A  FAREWELL. 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea. 
Thy  tribute  wave  deliver  : 

No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river  : 
No  where  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree. 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver  ; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver  ; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid  ; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say  : 
Bare-footed  came  the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down. 

To  meet  and  gi-eet  her  on  her  way  ; 
"  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 

"She  is  more  beautiful  than  day." 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies. 
She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen  : 

One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes. 
One  her  dark  }iair  and  lovesome  mien. 


So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace. 
In  all  that  land  had  never  been  : 

Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath  : 

' '  This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen  I ' 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


I  HAD  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late : 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace-gate. 
He  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would 

have  flown. 
But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of  sin. 
And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him  in. 
Where  sat  a  company  with  heated  eyes, 
Expecting  when  a  fountain  should  arise  : 
A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and  lips — 
As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclipse. 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles  and 

capes  — 
Suffused  them,   sitting,  lying,  languid 

shapes, 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine, 

and  piles  of  grapes. 


Then  methought  I  heard  a  mellow  sound, 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground  ; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assembled 
Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trembled, 
Wov'n   in   circles :    they  that   heard  it 

.sigh'd, 
Panted  hand  in  hand  with  faces  pale, 
Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones  re- 
plied ; 
Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering  wide 
Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail ; 
Then  the  music  touch'd  tile  gates  and 

died  ; 
Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail, 
Storm'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale  ; 
Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 

waited,  , 

As  't  were  a  hundred-throated  nightin- 
gale. 
The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd 

and  palpitated  ; 
Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound. 
Caught  the  .sparkles,  and  in  circles, 
Purplegauzes,  golden  hazes,  liijuid  mazes. 
Flung  the  tonent  rainbow  round  : 
Then  they  started  from  their  iilaccs, 
Moved  with  violence,  chajiged  in  hue, 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces. 


no 


THE    VISION    OF    SIN. 


"  In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down. 
To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way." 


Half-invisible  to  the  view, 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew. 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  liml>s,  and  faces, 
Twisted  haixl  in  fierce  embraces. 
Like  to  Fnries,  like  to  Graces, 
Dash'd  tof;ether  in  blinding  dew  : 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony, 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 


And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  mountain- 
tract. 
That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and 

lawn  : 
I  saw  that  every  rnoniing,  far  withdrawn 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataiact, 
God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


Unheeded  :  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 
From   those    sfill  heights,   and,   slowly 

drawing  near, 
A  vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold, 
Came  floating  on  for  many  a  month  and 

year. 
Unheeded  :  and  I  thought  I  would  have 

spoken. 
And  warn'd  that  madman  ere  it  grew  too 

late  : 
But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not.     Mine 

was  broken. 
When  that  cold  vapor  touch' d  the  palace 

gate. 
And  link'd  again.     I  saw  within  my  head 
A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean  as 

death. 
Who  slowly  rode  across  a  wither'd  heath, 
And  lighted  at  a  ruin'd  inn,  and  said  : 


THE  VISION   OF  SIN. 


Ill 


"  Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin  ! 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way  ; 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in. 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

'•  Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast  ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed  ; 
What  !  the  iiower  of  life  is  past : 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

"  Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour, 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath  ! 

Let  us  have  a  quiet  hour. 
Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

"  I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink  ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine  ; 
I  remember,  when  I  think. 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

"  Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips. 
When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day, 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips. 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

"Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame, 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee  : 

What  care  I  for  any  name  ? 
What  for  order  or  degree  ? 

"  Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg  : 
Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine  : 

Callest  thou  that  thing  a  leg  ? 

Which  is  thinnest  ?  thine  or  mine  ? 

"Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works  : 
Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too  : 

Ruin'd  trunks  on  wither'd  forks. 
Empty  scarecrow.?,  I  and  you  ! 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn  : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man. 
Every  moment  one  is  bom. 

"  We  are  men  of  niin'd  blood  ; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud. 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

"Name  and  fame  !  to  fly  .sublime 
Thro' the  courts,  thecamps,  theschooLs, 

Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  by  the  hands  of  fools, 

"  Friendship  !  —  to  be  two  in  one  — 
Let  the  canting  liar  pack  ! 


Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone. 
How  she  mouths  behind  my  back 

"  Virtue  !  —  to  be  good  and  just  — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well. 

Is  a  clot  of  warmer  dust, 
Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

"  Oh  !  we  two  as  well  can  look 
W  hi  ted  thought  and  cleanly  life 

As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbor's  wife. 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn  : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man. 
Every  moment  one  is  bom. 

"  Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave  : 
They  are  fiU'd  with  idle  spleen  ; 

Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave, 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 

"  He  that  roars  for  liberty 
Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power  ; 

And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

"  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup  : 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up. 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Greet  her  with  applausive  breath. 
Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread  ; 

In  her  right  a  civic  wreath. 
In  her  left  a  human  head. 

"  No,  I  love  not  what  is  new  ; 

She  is  of  an  ancient  house  : 
And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 

Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

"  Let  her  go  !  her  thirst  .she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs  : 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

"  Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool  — 
.  Visions  of  a  perfect  State  : 
Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

"Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave, 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 

And  tlip  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 


112 


COME  NOT,   WHEN   I  AM   DEAD. 


"Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue  ; 

Set  thy  hcary  fancies  free  ; 
What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 

Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

"Change,  reverting  to  the  years. 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears, 

And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

"Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love  — 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance  ; 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move. 
And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

"  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup  : 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads  : 

Welcome,  fellow-citizens. 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads  ! 

"  You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that  ? 

Every  face,  however  full. 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

"  Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Eex  ! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones, 
Madam  —  if  I  know  your  sex, 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 

"  No,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye  —  nor  yet  your  lip  : 

All  the  more  do  I  admire 

Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

"Lo!  God's  likeness  —  the  ground- 
plan — 

Neither  modell'd,  glazed,  or  framed  : 
Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 

Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed  ! 

"Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a  little  breath  ! 

Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death  ! 

"  Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long. 
And  the  longer  night  is  near  : 

What  !  I  am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 


"  Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all. 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd  ; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 
And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

"Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  ! 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  ! 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man  : 

Yet  we  wHl  not  die  forlorn." 


The  voice  grew  faint :  there  came  a  fur- 
ther change : 

Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  mountain- 
range  : 

Below  were  men  and  horses  pierced  with 
worms. 

And  slowly  quickening  into  lower  forms  ; 

By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum 
of  dross, 

Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch'd 
with  moss. 

Then  some  one  spake  :  "Behold!  it  was 
a  crime 

Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore  with 
time." 

Another  said  :  "  The  crime  of  sense  be- 
came 

The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  blame." 

And  one  :  ' '  He  had  not  wholly  quench'd 
his  power ; 

A  little  grain  of  conscience  made  him 
sour." 

At  last  1  heard  a  voice  tipon  the  slope 

Cry  to  the  summit, ' '  Is  there  any  hope  ? " 

To  which  an  answer  peal'd  from  that 
high  land, 

But  in  a  tongueno  man  could  understand  ; 

And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  with- 
drawn 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


Come  not,  when  T  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And    vex    the    unhappy   dust    thou 
wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover 
cry; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime 
I  care  no  longer,  being  all  uublest : 


THE  POET  S   SONG. 


113 


'  Break,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  I  ° 


"Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of 
Time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weakheart,  and  leave  me  where 
I  lie: 
Go  by,  go  by. 

THE  EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands  ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

Tlie  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls  ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


MovK  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow  : 

From  fiinges  of  the  faded  eve, 
0,  happv  planet,  eastward  go  ; 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

Tliat  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne. 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-mom. 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

0  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  POET'S  SONG. 

Thk  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 
He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the 
street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the 
sun, 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the 
wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place. 
And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 


114 


THREE  SONNETS  TO  A  COQUETTE. 


That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her 
cloud, 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee. 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spiay, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on 
his  beak. 

And  stared,  witli  his  foot  on  the  prey. 
And  the  nightingale  thouglit,  "I  have 
sung  many  songs. 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 


My  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 

But  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 

Nor  wandered  into  other  ways  : 
I  have  not  lack'd  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 

And  now  shake  hands  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go  : 

Shake  hands  once  more  :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far —  far  down,  but  1  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


THE  CAPTAIN. 

A   LEGEND  OF   THE   NAVY. 

He  that  only  rules  by  terror 

Doetli  grievous  wrong. 
Deep  as  Hell  I  count  his  error, 

Let  him  hear  my  song. 
Brave  the  Captain  was  :  the  seamen 

Made  a  gallant  crew. 
Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen. 

Sailors  bold  and  tme. 
But  they  hated  his  oppression, 

Stem  he  was  and  rash  ; 
So  for  eveiy  light  transgression 

Doom'd  them  to  the  lash. 
Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 

Seem'd  the  Captain's  mood. 
Secret  wrath  like  smother'd  fuel 

Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 
Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory, 

Hoped  to  make  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 

Wheresoe'er  he  came. 
So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands, 

Many  a  harbor-mouth, 
Sailing  under  ])almy  highlands 

Far  within  the  South. 


On  a  day  when  they  were  going 

O'er  the  lone  expanse, 
In  the  north,  her  canvas  flowing, 

Rose  a  sliip  of  France. 
Then  the  Caittain's  color  heighten'd. 

Joyful  came  his  speech  : 
But  a  cloudy  gladness  lighten'd 

In  the  eyes  of  each. 
"  Chase,"  he  said  :  the  ship  flew  forward. 

And  the  wind  did  blow  ; 
Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norward, 

Till  she  near'd  the  foe. 
Then  they  look'd  at  him  they  hated, 

Had  what  they  desired  : 
Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited  — 

Not  a  gun  was  fired. 
But  they  heard  the  foeman's  thunder 

Roaring  out  their  doom  ; 
All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 

Crashing  went  the  boom. 
Spars  were  splinter'd.decks  were shatter'd, 

Bullets  fell  like  rain  ;       ' 
Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter'd 

Blood  and  brains  of  men. 
Spars  were  splinter'd  ;  decks  were  broken  ■ 

Every  mother's  son  — 
Down  they  dropt —  nowoidwasspcken  — 

Each  beside  his  grm. 
On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying, 

Were  their  faces  grim. 
In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying. 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 
Those,  in  whom  he  had  reliance 

For  his  noble  name, 
With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 

Sold  him  unto  shame. 
Shame  and  wrath  his  heart  confounded, 

Pale  he  turn'd  and  red, 
Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 

Falling  on  the  dead. 
Dismal  error  !  fearful  slaughter  ! 

Years  have  wander'd  by. 
Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 

Crew  and  Ca])tain  lie  ; 
There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 

O'er  them  mouldering, 
And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 
With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 

THREE    SONNETS    TO    A 
COQUETTE. 

I. 
Care.ss'd  or  chidden  by  the  dainty  hand, 

And  .singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that. 
Light  Hope  at  Beauty's  call  would  \n'.ivh 
and  stand. 


ON   A   MOURNER. 


115 


And  run  thro*  every  change  of  sharp 

and  fiat ; 
And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow  sat, 
When  sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy 
band, 
And  chased  away  the   still-recurring 
gnat. 
And  woke  her  with  a  lay  from  fairy  land. 
But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less  and 
less. 
For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders  far, 
Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love's  delicious 
creeds  ; 
And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness. 
Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a  single  star. 
That  sets  at  twilight  inaland  of  reeds. 


The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent ! 
A  nobler  yearning  never  broke  her  rest 
Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gayly 
drest. 
And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplish- 
ment : 
Yet  in  the  waltzing-circle  as  we  went, 

My  fancy  made  me  for  a  moment  blest 
To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous 

breast 
That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  content. 
A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears, 
The  phantom  of  a  wish  that  once  could 
move, 
A  ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles 
restore  — 
For  ah  !  the  slight  coquette,  she  can- 
not love, 
Andifyou  kiss'dherfeetathousand  years. 
She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and 
care  no  more. 


Wan  Sculptor  weepest  thou  to  take  the 
cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments   that   near 
thee  lie  ? 
0  sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the 
past, 
In  painting  some   dead   friend   from 
memory  ? 
Weep  on  :  beyond  his  object  Love  can 
last : 
His  object  lives  :  more  cause  to  weep 
have  1  : 
My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing  fast. 
No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love 
can  die. 


I  pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup, 
Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she 
sits  — 
Ah  pity — hint  itnot  in  human  tones. 
But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  up 
With  secret  death  for  ever,  in  the  pits 
Which  some  green  Christmas  crams 
with  weary  bones. 

SONG. 

Lady,  let  the  rolling  drums 
Beat  to  battle  where  thy  warrior  stands  : 
Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 

Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow. 
Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee  : 
Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

SONG. 

Home  they  brought  him  slain  with  spears. 

They  brought  him  home  at  even-fall : 
All  alone  she  sits  and  hears 

Echoes  in  his  empty  hall. 

Sounding  on  the  morrow. 

The  Sun  peep'd  in  from  open  field. 
The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance, 
Rode  upon  his  father's  lance. 

Beat  upon  his  father's  shield  — 

"  0  hush,  my  joy,  my  sorrow." 

ON  A  MOURNER. 

I. 

Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies. 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 

To  every  land  beneath  the  skies. 
Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with 

base. 
But  lives  and  loves  in  every  place  ; 


Fills  out  the  homely  quickset-screens, 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe. 

Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  hums  the  dropping 

snipe, 
With  moss  and  braided  marish-pipe  ; 


And  on  thy  heart  a  finger  lays. 

Saying,  "  Boat  quicker,  for  the  time 
Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 


116 


NOETHEKN  FARMER. 


Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and  lime 
Put  forth  and  feel  a  gladder  clime." 


And  murmurs  of  a  deeper  voice, 
Going  before  to  some  far  shrine, 

Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger  choice, 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  will  that  closes  thine. 


And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 
Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  forlorn, 

Come  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse  and  bride. 
From  out  the  borders  of  the  morn. 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them  born. 


And  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 
The    blackness    round   the    tombing 
sod, 
Thro'  silence  and  the  trembling  stars 
Comes  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet  have 

trod. 
And  Virtue,  like  a  household  god 


Promising  empire  ;  such  as  those 
That  once  at  dead  of  night  did  greet 

Troy's  wandering  prince,  so  that  he  rose 
With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


(published  in  1869.) 


NORTHERN   FARMER. 


KEW  STYLE. 


Dosn't  thou  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they 

canters  awaiiy  ? 
Proputty,  proputty,   proputty  —  that 's 

what  I  'ears  'em  saay. 
Proputty,    proputty,    proputty  —  Sam, 

thou 's  an  ass  for  thy  paains  : 
Theer  's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs  nor 

in  all  thy  braains. 


Woa  —  theer 's  a  craw  to  pluck  wi'  tha, 

Sam  :  yon's  parson's  'ouse  — 
Dosn't  thou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be 

eather  a  man  or  a  mouse  ? 
Time  to  think  on  it  then  ;  for  thou  '11  be 

twenty  to  weeak.* 
Proputty,  proputty  —  woa  then  woa  — 

let  ma  'ear  mysen  speak. 


Me  an'  thy  muther,  Sammy,  'as  bean 

a-talkin'  o'  thee  ; 
Thou's  been  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she 

bean  a  tellin'  it  me. 

•  This  week. 


Thou  '11  not  marry  for  munny  —  thou 's 
sweet  upo'  parson's  lass  — 

Noa  —  thou  '11  marrj'  for  luvv  —  an'  we 
boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 


Seea'd  her  to-daiiy  goa  by  —  Saaint's- 
daay — they  was  ringing  the  bells. 

She  's  a  beauty  thou  thinks  —  an'  soa  is 
scoors  o'  gells. 

Them  as  'as  munny  an'  all  —  wot 's  a 
beauty  ?  —  the  flower  as  blaws. 

But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  pro- 
putty, proputty  graws. 

V. 

Do' ant  be  stunt :  *  taake  time  :  I  knaws 

what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 
Wam't  I  craiized  fur  the  lasses  mysen 

when  I  wur  a  lad  ? 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often 

'as  towd  ma  this  : 
"Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa 

wheer  munny  is  ! " 

VI. 

An'  I  went  wheer  munny  war  :  an'  thy 

mother  coom  to  'and, 
Wi'  lots  o'  munny  laaid  by,  an'  a  nicetish 

bit  o'  land. 


THE   GOLDEN   SUPPEE. 


117 


Maaybe  she  wam't  a  beauty  :  —  I  niver 

giv  it  a  thowt  — 
But  wain't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss 

as  a  lass  as  'aut  nowt  ? 


Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a 

nowt  when  'e's  dead, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and 

addle  *  her  bread  : 
Why  ?  fur  'e's  nobbut  a  curate,  an'  weant 

nivir  git  naw  'igher  ; 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor 

'e  coom'd  to  the  shire. 


And  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots 

o'  'Varsity  debt, 
Stook  to  his  taail  they  did,  an'  'e  'ant 

got  shut  on  'em  yet. 
An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  back  i'  the  grip,  wi' 

noiin  to  lend  'ira  a  shove, 
Woorse  nor  a  far-welter'd  t  yowe  :  fur, 

Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luvv. 


Luvv  ?  what 's  luw  ?  thou  can  luw  thy 

lass  an'  'er  munny  too, 
Maakin'  'em  goa  togither  as  they  've  good 

right  to  do. 
Could'n  I  luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  o' 

'er  munny  laaid  by  ? 
Naay  —  fur  I  luvv'd  'er  a  vast  sight  moor 

fur  it :  reason  why. 


Ay  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to 

marry  the  lass, 
Cooms  of  a  gentleman  bum  :  an'weboath 

on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha  ?  —  an  ass  as 

near  as  mays  nowt  —  X 
Woa  then,  wiltha  ?  dangtha  !  —  the  bees 

is  as  fell  as  owt.  § 

XI. 

Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead, 

lad,  out  o'  the  fence  ! 
Gentleman    burn  !     what 's    gentleman 

burn  ?  i.s  it  slii'.lins  an'  pence  ? 
Proputty,  profiutty 's  ivrj-thing'ere,  an', 

Sammy,  I  'm  blest 
If  it  is  n't  the   saame  oop  yonder,  fur 

them  as  'as  it 's  the  best. 

•  Eam. 

f  Or  fow-welter'd,  —  said  of  a  sheep  lying  on  its  back 
In  the  furrow. 
!  Make*;  nothing. 
I  The  Aics  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 


Tis'n  them  as  'as  munny  as  breaks  into 

'ouses  an'  steals, 
Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  backs  an'  taakes 

their  regular  meals. 
Noa,  but  it 's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer 

a  meal 's  to  be  'ad. 
Taake  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor 

in  a  loomp  is  bad. 


Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  a 

bean  a  laazy  lot. 
Fur  work  mun   'a  gone   to  the  gittin' 

whiniver  munny  was  got. 
Feyther  'ad  ammost  nowt ;  leaastwaays 

'is  munny  was  'id. 
But  'e  tued  an*  moil'd  'issen  dead,  an'  'e 

died  a  good  un,  'e  did. 


Loook  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck 

comes  out  by  the  'ill ! 
Feyther  run  up  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs 

up  to  the  mill ; 
An'  I  '11  run  up  to  the  brig,  an'  that 

thou  '11  live  to  see  ; 
And  if  thou  marries  a  good  un  I  '11  leave 

the  land  to  thee. 


Thim's  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby 

I  means  to  stick  ; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I  '11  leave 

the  land  to  Dick.  — 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty  —  that 's 

what  I  'ears  'im  saay  — 
Proputty,  proputty,    proputty  —  canter 

an'  canter  awaay. 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 

[This  poem  is  founded  upon  a  story  In  Boccaccio. 

A  younjf  lover,  Julian,  whose  cousin  and  foster-sister, 
Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his  friend  and  rival.  Lionel, 
endeavors  to  narrate  the  story  of  his  own  love  for  her 
and  tlie  strane;e  sequel  of  it.  He  speaks  of  having  been 
haunte<l  in  delirium  by  visions  and  the  sound  or  bells, 
sometimes  tolline  for  a  funeral,  and  at  Inst  ringinc  for  a 
marriage  ;  but  lie  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  ap- 
proaches the  Event,  and  a  witness  to  it  completes  the 
tale.] 

He  flies  the  event :  he  leaves  the  event 

to  me  : 
Poor  Julian  —  how  he  rush'd  aWay  ;  the 

bells, 
Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  ear  and 

heart  — 


118 


THE   GOLDEN   SUPPER. 


But  cast  a  parting  glance  at  me,  you  saw, 
As  who  should  say  "continue."     Well, 

he  had 
One  golden  hour —  of  triumph  shall  I  say  ? 
Solace  at  least —  beforehe  left  his  home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that  hour 

of  his  ! 
He  moved  thro'  all  of  it  majestically  — 
Restrain' d  himself  quite  to  the  close  — 

but  now  — 

Whether  they  were  his  lady's  marriage- 
bells. 
Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 
I  never  ask'd  :  but  Lionel  and  the  girl 
Were  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came  again 
Back  to  his  mother's  house  among  the 

pines. 
But  these,  their  gloom,  the  mountains 

and  the  Bay, 
The  whole  land  weigh'd  him  down  as 

^tna  does 
The  Giant  of  Mythology  :  he  would  go. 
Would  leave  the  land  for  ever,  and  had 

gone 
Surely,  but  for  a  whisper  "Go  not  yet," 
Some  warning,  and  divinely  as  it  seem'd 
By  that  which  foUow'd  —  but  of  this  I 

deem 
As  of  the  visions  that  he  told  —  the  event 
Glanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after  life. 
And  partly  made  them  —  tho'  he  knew 

it  not. 

And  thus  he  stay'd  and  would  not  look 

at  her  — 
No,   not   for  months :    but,    when  the 

eleventh  moon 
After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover's  Bay, 
Heard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell,  and 

said. 
Would  you  could  toll  me  out  of  life,  but 

found  — 
All  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to  him  — 
A  crueller  reason  than  a  crazy  ear, 
For  thatlow  knell  tolling  his  lady  dead  — 
Dead  —  and  had  lain  three  days  without 

a  pulse  : 
All  that  look'd  on  her  had  pronounced 

her  dead. 
And  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian's 

land 
They  never  nail  a  dumb  head  up  in  elm). 
Bore   her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of 

heaven, 
And  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own  kin. 


What  did  he  then  ?  not  die  :  he  is 
here  and  hale  — 

Not  plunge  headforemost  from  the  moun- 
tain there. 

And  leave  the  name  of  Lover's  Leap  : 
not  he  : 

He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper  now, 

Thought  that  he  knew  it.  "This,  I 
stay'd  for  this ; 

0  love,  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long. 
Now,  now,  will  I  go  down  into  the  grave, 

1  will  be  all  alone  with  all  I  love, 

And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.     She  is  his  no 

more  : 
The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I  go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead." 

The  fancy  stirr'd  him  so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the  dim 

vault, 
And,  making  there  a  sudden  light,  beheld 
All  round  about  him  that  which  all  will  be. 
The  light  was  but  a  flash,  and  went  again. 
Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her  face  ; 
Her  breast  as  in  a  shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which  the 

moon 
Struck  from  an  open  gloating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of  her 
Drown'd  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of  the 

vault. 

"  It  was  my  wish,"  he  said,  "  to  pass, 

to  sleep. 
To  rest,  to  be  with  her —  till  the  great  day 
Peal'd  on  us   with  that  music  which 

rights  all. 
And  raised   us  hand   in   hand."     And 

kneeling  there 
Down  in  the   dreadful  dust   that   once 

was  man. 
Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving 

hearts. 
Hearts  that  had  beat  with  such  a  love 

as  mine  — 
Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as 

her  — 
He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kiss'd  her  more  than  once,  till  help- 
less death 
And  silence  made  him  bold  —  nay,  but 

I  wrong  him. 
He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  even  in  death ; 
But,  placing  liistruehanduponherlieart, 
"0,    you    warm    heart,"    he    nioan'd, 

"not  even  death 


THE   GOLDEN   SUPPER. 


119 


Can  chill  you  all  at  once  "  :  then  start- 
ing, thought 
His   dreams  had   come  again.     "Do  I 

wake  or  sleep  ? 
Or  am  I  made  immortal,  or  my  love 
Mortal  once  more  ? "  It  beat  —  the  heart 

—  it  beat  : 
Faint  —  but  it  beat :  at  which  his  own 

began 
To  pulse  with  such  a  vehemence  that  it 

drown'd 
The  feebler  motion  underneath  his  hand. 
But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  satisfied, 
He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepulchre, 
And,  wrapping  her  all  overwith  thecloak 
He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and  now 
Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 
Holding  his  golden  burden  in  his  arms. 
So  bore  her  thro'  the  solitary  land 
Back  to  the  mother's  house  where  she 
was  born. 

There  the  good  mother's  kindly  min- 
istering. 
With  half  a  night's  appliances,  recall'd 
Her  fluttering  life  :  she  rais'd  an  eye  that 

ask'd 
"Where?"  till  the  things  familiar  to 

her  youth 
Hadmadeasilentanswer:  thenshespoke, 
"  Here  !   and  how  came  I  here  ? "   and 

learning  it 
(They  told  hersomewhatrashlyasl  think) 
At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 
"Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give 

me  back  : 
Send  !  bid  him  come  "  ;  but  Lionel  was 

away  — 
Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanish' d,  none 

knew  where. 
"He  casts  me   out,"  she  wept,   "and 

goes  "  —  a  wail 
Thatseemingsomething,  yet  was  nothing, 

bom 
Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter'd 

nerve. 
Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  reproof 
At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 
Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had  re- 

tum'd, 
"O  yes,  and  you,"  she  said,  "and  none 

but  you. 
For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love  again, 
And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell  him 

of  it, 
And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he 

returns." 


"Stay  then  a  little,"  answer'd  Julian, 

"here, 
And  keep  yourself,  none   knowing,  to 

yourself ; 
And  I  will  do  your  will.    I  may  not  stay. 
No,  not  an  hour ;  but  send  me  notice  of 

him 
When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I  return, 
And  1  will  make  a  solemn  offering  of  you 
To  him  you  love. "  And  faintly  she  replied, 
' '  And    I    will  do   your  will,  and  none 

shall  know." 

Not  know  ?  with  such  a  secret  to  be 

known. 
But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved 

them  both, 
And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves 

of  both  ; 
Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any  way. 
And  all  the  land  was  waste  and  solitary : 
And  then  he  rode  away  ;  but  after  this. 
An  hour  or  two,  Camilla's  travail  came 
Upon  her,  and  that  day  a  boy  was  bom. 
Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 

And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  away, 
And  pausing  at  a  hostel  in  a  marsh. 
There  fever  seized  upon  him  :   myself 

was  then 
Travelling  that  laud,  and  meant  to  rest 

an  hour ; 
And  sitting  down  to  such  a  base  repast, 
It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it  — 
I  heard  a  groaning  overhead,  and  climb' d 
The  moulder'd  stairs  (for  everything  was 

vile) 
And  in  a  loft,  with  none  to  wait  on  him. 
Found,  as  it  seem'd,  a  skeleton  alone. 
Raving  of  dead  men's  dust  and  beating 

hearts. 

A  dismal  hostel  in  a  dismal  land, 
A  flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rush  ! 
But  there  from  fever  and  my  care  of  him 
Sprang  up  a  friendship  that  may  help  us 

yet. 
For  while  we  roam'd  along  the  dreary 

coast. 
And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by  piece 
I  learnt  the  drearier  story  of  his  life  ; 
And,  tho'  he  loved  and  honor'd  Lionel, 
Found  that  the  sudden  wail  his  lady  made 
Dwelt  in  his  fancy:  did  he  know  her  worth, 
Her  beauty  even  ?  should  he  not  be  taught, 
Ev'n  by  the  price  that  others  set  upon  it. 
The  value  of  that  jewel  he  bad  to  guard  t 


120 


THE   GOLDEN   SUPPER. 


Suddenly  came  her  notice  and  we  past, 
I  with  our  lover  to  his  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind, 

the  soul : 
TM^makesthesequelpure;  tho'  someofus 
Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am  I  :  and  yet  I  say,  the  bird 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however  sweet, 
But  if   my  neighbor   whistle  answers 

him  — 
What  matter  ?  there  are  others  in  the  wood. 
Yet  when  I  saw  her  (and  I  thought  him 

crazed, 
Tho'  not  with  such  a  craziness  as  needs 
A  cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes  of 

hers  — 
Oh  !  such  dark  eyes  !  and  not  her  eyes 

alone. 
But  all  from  these  to  where  she  touch' d 

on  earth, 
For  such  a  craziness  as  Julian's  seem'd 
No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 
To  greet  us,  her  young  hero  in  her  arms  ! 
"  Kiss  him,"  she  said.     "  You  gave  me 

life  again. 
He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it  once. 
His  otherfather  you  !    Kisshim,  and  then 
Forgive  him,  if  his  name  be  Julian  too." 

Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart ! 
his  OAvn 
Sent  such  a  flame  into  his-face,  I  knew 
Some  sudden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him  there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to  go, 
And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying  him 
By  that  great  love  they  both  had  borne 

the  dead. 
To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with  him 
Before  he  left  the  land  for  evermore  ; 
And  then  to  friends  —  they  were  not 

many  —  who  lived 
Scatteringly  about  that  lonely  land  of  his. 
And  bade  them  to  a  banquet  of  farewells. 

AndJulian  made  asolemn  feast :  I  never 
Sat  at  a  costlier  ;  for  all  round  his  hall 
From  column  on  to  column,  as  in  a  wood. 
Not  such  as  here  —  an  equatorial  one. 
Great  garlands  swung  and  blossom' d ; 

and  beneath, 
Heirlooms,  and  ancient  miracles  of  Art, 
Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that.  Heaven 

knows  when, 


Had  suck'd  the  fire  of  some  forgotten  suv 
And  kept  it  thro'  a  hundred  yeai-s  a 

gloom, 
Ypt  glowing  in  a  heart  of  ruby  —  cupa 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  rouiw 

in  gold  — 
Othersof  glass  as  costly — some  with  gemf 
Movable  and  resettable  at  will. 
And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value  —  A'u 

heavens ! 
Why  need  I  tell  you  all  ?  —  suffice  to  say 
That  whatsoever  such  a  house  as  his. 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
Was  brought  before  the  guest  :  and  they. 

the  guests. 
Wonder'  d  at  some  strange  light  in  Julian' s 

eyes 
(I  told  you  that  he  had  hLs  golden  hour). 
And  such  a  feast,  ill-suited  as  it  seem'd 
To  such  a  time,  to  Lionel's  loss  and  his, 
And  that  resolved  self-exile  from  a  land 
He  never  would  revisit,  such  a  feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  ami   stranger  ev'n 

than  rich. 
But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a  king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the  hall 
Twogreatfunereal  curtains,  looping  down, 
Parted  a  little  ere  they  met  the  floor. 
About  a  picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  befoi'e,  and  falling  hid  the 

frame. 
And  just  above  the  parting  was  a  lamp  : 
So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with  n  ight 
Seem'd  stepping  out  of  darkness  with  a 

smile. 

Well  then  —  our  solemn  feast  — we  ate 

and  drank, 
And  might  —  the  wines  being  of  such 

nobleness  — 
Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian's  eyes. 
And  something  weird  and  wild  about  it 

all: 
What  was  it  ?  for  our  lover  seldom  spoke. 
Scarce  touch'd  the  meats  ;  but  ever  and 

anon 
A  priceless  goblet  with  a  priceless  wine 
Arising,  show'd  he  drank  beyond  his  use  ; 
And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end,  he 

said  : 

"  There   is  a  custom  in  the  Orient, 

friends  — 
I  read  of  it  in  Persia  —  when  a  man 
Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him,  he 

brings 


THE  GOLDEN   SUPPEK. 


121 


And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  accounts 
Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may  be. 
This  custom  —  " 

Pausing  here  a  moment,  all 
The  guests  broke  in  upon  him  with  meet- 
ing hands 
And  cries  about  the  banquet —  "Beau- 
tiful! 
Who  coulddesire  more  beauty atafeast  ?" 

The  lover  answer'd,   "  There  is  more 

than  one 
Here  sitting  who  desires  it.   Laud  me  not 
Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the  close. 
This  custom  steps  yet  further  when  the 

guest 
Is  loved  and  honor'd  to  the  uttermost. 
For  after  he  has  shown  him  gems  or  gold, 
He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  rich  guise 
That  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as  these. 
The  beauty  that  is  dearest  to  his  heart  — 
•  0  my  heart's  lord,  would  I  could  show 

you,'  he  says, 
' Ev'n  my  heart  too.'   And  I  propose  to- 
night 
To  show  you  what  is  dearest  to  my  heart, 
And  my  heart  too. 

"  But  solve  me  first  a  doubt. 
I  knew  a  man,  nor  many  years  ago  ; 
He  had  a  faithful  servant,  one  who  loved 
His  master  more  than  all  on  earth  beside. 
He  falling  sick,  and  seeming  close  on 

death. 
His  master  would  not  wait  until  he  died. 
But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from  the 

door. 
And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to  die. 
I  knew  another,  not  so  long  ago. 
Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took  him 

home. 
And  fed,  and  cherish'd  him,  and  saved 

his  life. 
I  ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master 

claim 
His  service,  whom  does  it  belongto  ?  him 
Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved 

his  life  ? " 

This  question,  so  flung  down  before 

the  guests. 
And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at  length 
When  some  were  doubtful  how  the  law 

would  hold. 
Was  handed  over  l3y  consent  of  all 
To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 


Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  of 

phrase. 
And  he  beginning  languidly  —  his  loss 
Weigh'd  on  him  yet  —  but  warming  as 

he  went, 
Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass  it  by, 
Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived. 
By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  gratefulness. 
The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was  due 
All  to  the  saver  —  adding,  with  a  smile, 
The  first  for  many  weeks  —  a  semi-smile 
As  at  a  strong  conclusion —  "  body  and 

soul 
And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his 

will." 

Then  Julian  made  a  secret  sign  to  me 
To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them  all. 
Andcrossingher  own  picture  as  she  came. 
And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  herself 
Is  lovelier  than  all  others  —  on  her  head 
A  diamond  circlet,  and  from  under  this 
A  veil,  that  seem'd  no  more  than  gilded 

air, 
Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern  gauze 
With  seeds  of  gold  —  so,  with  that  grace 

of  hers. 
Slow-moving  as  a  wave  against  the  wind, 
That  flings  a  mist  behind  it  in  the  sun  — 
And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty 

babe, 
The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was 

crown'd 
With  roses,  none  .so  rosy  as  himself — 
And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the  jewels 
Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled  and  flash'd,  for  he  had  decked 

them  out 
As  for  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 
So  she  came  in  :  —  I  am  long  in  telling  it. 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  tiling  so  strange, 
Sad,  sweet,  and  strange  together — floated 

in,  — 
While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amazement 

rose,  — 
And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle  hall, 
Before  the  board,  there  paused  and  stood, 

her  breast 
Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her  feet. 
Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 
But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights  nor 

feast 
Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men  ;  who 

cared 
Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 
And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and  jewell'd 

world  *• 


122 


THE  GOLDEN   SUPPER. 


About  him,  look'd,  as  he  is  like  to  prove, 
When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he  saw. 

"  My  guests,"  said  Julian  :  "  you  are 

honor'd  now 
Ev'n  to  the  uttermost :  in  her  behold 
Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to 

me." 
Then  waving  us  a  sign  to  seat  ourselves, 
Led  his  dear  lady  to  a  chair  of  state. 
And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 
Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 
Thrice  in  a  second,  felt  him  tremble  too, 
And  heard  him  muttering,  "  So  like,  so 

like  ; 
She  never  had  a  sister.     I  knew  none. 
Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers  —  0  God,  so 

like  ! " 
And  then  he  suddenly  ask'd  her  if  she 

were. 
She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down,  and 

was  dumb. 
And  then  some  other  question'd  if  she 

came 
From  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did  not 

speak. 
Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers  :  but  she 
To  all  their  queries  answer'd  not  a  word. 
Which  made  the  amazement  more,  till 

one  of  them 
Said,  shuddering,  "  Her  spectre  ! "    But 

his  friend 
Replied,  in  half  a  whisper,  ' '  Not  at  least 
The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken  to. 
Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 
Prove,  as  I  almost  dread  to   find  her, 

dumb  ! " 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer'd 

all: 
"She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you  see 
That  faithful   servant  whom  we  spoke 

about. 
Obedient  to  her  second  master  now  ; 
Which  will  not  last.    I  have  here  to-night 

a  guest 
So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and 

loss  — 
What !  shall  I  bind  him  more  ?   in  his 

behalf. 
Shall  I  exceed  the  Persian,  giving  him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest  to 

me, 
Not  only  showing  ?  and  he  himself  pro- 
nounced 
That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to  give. 


"Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all 

of  you 
Not  to  break  in  on  what  I  say  by  word 
Or  whisper,  while  I  show   you   all  my 

heart." 
And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — 
The  passionate  moment  would  not  suffer 

that  — 
Past  thro' his  visions  to  the  burial ;  thence 
Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his  own 

hall; 
And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all  his 

guests 
Once  more  as  by  enchantment ;  all  but  he, 
Lionel,  who  fain  had  risen,  but  fell  again, 
And  sat  as  if  in  chains  —  to  whom  he  said  : 

"  Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for 

your  wife  ; 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake. 
And  tho'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you 

lost. 
Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly, 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring  her 

back  : 
I  leave  this  land  for  ever. "   Here  he  ceased. 

Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one  hand, 
And  beaiing  on  one  arm  the  noble  babe. 
He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Lionel. 
And  there  the  widower  husband  and  dead 

wife 
Rush'd  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that  rather 

seem'd 
For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life  re- 
new'd  ; 
At  this  the  very  babe  began  to  wail  ; 
At  once  they  turn'd,   and   caught   and 

brought  him  in 
To  their  charm'd  circle,  and,  half-killing 

him 
With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and  claspt 

again. 
But  Lionel,  when  atla.st  he  freed  himself 
From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a  face 
All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life. 
And  love,  and  boundless  thanks  —  the 

sight  of  this 
So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turning 

to  me 
And  saying,  "  It  is  over  :  let  us  go"  — 
There  were  ourhorsesreadj'atthedoors — 
We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mounting 

these 
He  past  for  ever  fVoni  his  native  land  ; 
And  I  with  him,  my  Julian,  back  to  mine. 


WAGES. 


123 


THE  VICTIM, 


A  PLAGUE  upon  the  people  fell, 
A  famine  after  laid  them  low, 
Then  thorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire, 

For  on  them  brake  tlie  sudden  foe  ; 
So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried 

"The  Gods  are  moved  against  the  land. 
The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 
To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a  hand  : 
"  Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife  ! 
What  would  you  have  of  us  ? 
Human  life  ? 
Were  it  our  nearest, 
Were  it  our  dearest, 
(Answer,  0  answer) 
We  give  you  his  life." 


Bnt  still  the  foeman  spoil'd  and  bum'd, 

And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood. 
And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn'd 

And  whiten'd  all  the  rolling  flood  ; 
And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way, 

Or  down  in  a  furrow  scathed  with  flame : 
And  ever  and  aye  the  Priesthood  moan'd 
Till  at  last  it  seem'd  that  an  answer 
came  : 
"The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife  ; 
Take  you  his  dearest, 
Give  us  a  life." 


The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill ; 

The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild  ; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still ; 
She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old, 

His  beauty  still  with  his  years  inci-eased. 
His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold. 
He  seem'd  a  victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  Priest  beheld  him, 
And  cried  with  joy, 
"  The  Gods  have  answer'd  : 
Wa  give  them  the  boy." 


Tfie  King  retum'd  from  out  the  wild. 
He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand  ; 

The  mother  said  "They  have  taken  the 
child 
To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the  land  : 


The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased. 

And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the  lea  : 
The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased, 
So  I  pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 
They  have  taken  our  son. 
They  will  have  his  life.  -^g. 

Is  he.  your  dearest  ?  % 

Or  1,  the  wife  ? " 


The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on  brow, 

He  stay'd  his  arms  upon  his  knee  : 
"0  wife,  what  use  to  answer  now  ? 

For  now  the  Priest  has  judged  for  me." 
The  King  was  shaken  with  holy  fear  : 
"The  Gods,"  he  said,  "would  have 
chosen  well  ; 
Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear, 
•*  And  which  the  dearest  I  cannot  tell ! " 
But  the  Priest  was  happy. 
His  victim  won  : 
"We  have  his  dearest. 
His  only  son  !  " 


The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared. 

The  knife  uprising  toward  the  blow, 
To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 

"  Me,  not  my  darling,  no  !  " 
He  caught  her  away  with  a  sudden  cry  ; 

Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife. 
And  shrieking  "/am  his  dearest,  I  — 
/am  his  dearest !  "  rush'd  on  the  knife. 
And  the  Priest  was  happy, 
"  0,  Father  Odin, 
We  give  you  a  life. 
Which  was  his  nearest  ? 
Who  was  his  dearest  ? 
The  Gods  have  answer'd  ; 
We  give  them  the  wife  ! " 


WAGES. 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory 

of  song. 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost 

on  an  endless  sea  — 
Gl»ry  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to 

right  the  wrong  — 
Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no 

lover  of  glory  slie  : 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still 

to  be. 
The  wages  of  sin  is  death  :  if  the  wages 

of  Virtue  be  dust, 


124 


LUCEETIUS. 


Would  slie  have  heart  to  endure  for 
the  life  of  the  worm  and  the  fly  ? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet 
^    seats  of  the  just, 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask 
in  a  summer  sky  : 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not 
to  die. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas, 
the  hills  and  the  plains  — 

Are  not  these,  0  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him 
who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ?  tho'  He  be  not 

that  which  He  seems  ? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do 

we  not  live  in  dreams  ? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of 
body  and  limb. 

Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  di- 
vision from  Him  ? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee  :  thyself  art  the 

reason  why  ; 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast 

power  to  feel  "  I  am  I "  ? 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee ;  and  thou 

fulfillest  thy  doom. 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled 

splendor  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and 
Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet  — 

Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer 
than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise ;  0  Soul,  and 

let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is 

yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some  :  no  God  at  all, 

says  the  fool ; 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight 

staff  bent  in  a  pool ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the 

eye  of  man  cannot  see  ; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision — 

weie  it  not  He  ? 


Flow^er  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies  ;  — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


LUCRETIUS. 

LuciLiA,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 
Her  master  cold  ;  for  when  the  morning 

flush 
Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had  died 
Between  them,  tho'  he  loved  her  none  the 

less. 
Yet  often  when  the  woman  heard  his  foot 
Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and  ran 
To  greet  him  with  a  kiss,  the  master  took 
Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for  —  his  mind 
Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argument, 
Or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 
And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter  —  he  past 
To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hundred 

-  scrolls 
Left  by  the  Teacherwhom  he  held  divine. 
She  brook' d  it  not ;  but  wrathful,  pet- 
ulant. 
Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and  found 

a  witch 
Who  brew'd  the  philtre  which  had  power, 

they  said. 
To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 
And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with  his 

drink, 
And  this  destroy'd  him  ;  for  the  wicked 

broth 
Confused  the  chemic  labor  of  the  blood, 
And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within  the 

man's 
Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells, 

and  check' d 
His  power  to  shape  :  he  loathed  himself  ; 

and  once 
After  a  tempest  woke  upon  a  morn 
That  mock'd  him  with  returning  calm, 

and  cried ; 

"Storm  in  the  night !  for  thrice  I  heard 
the  rain 
Rushing ;  and  once  the  flash  of  a  thunder- 
bolt— 
Methought  I  never  saw  so  fierce  a  fork  — 
Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain-side, 
and  show'd 


LUCRETIUS. 


125 


A  riotous  confluence  of  watercoui-ses 
Blancliing  and  billowing  in  a  hollow  of  it, 
Where  aU  but  yester-eve  was  dusty-dry. 

"Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy 

Gods,  what  dreams  ! 
For  thrice  I  waken'd  after  dreams.     Per- 
chance 
We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that  come 
Just   ere  the  waking  :    terrible  !   for  it 

seera'd 
A  void  was  made  in  Nature ;  all  her  bonds 
Crack'd ;  and  I   saw  the  iiaring  atom- 
streams 
And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe, 
Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane. 
Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and  make 
Another  and  another  frame  of  things 
i  or  ever :  that  was  mine,  my  dream,  1 

knew  it  — 
Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 
With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot 

plies 
His  function  of  the  woodland  :  but  the 

next  ! 
I  thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla  shed 
Came  driving  rainlike  down  again   on 

earth, 
And  where    it    dash'd    the    reddening 

meadow,  sprang 
No  dragon  warriors  from  Cadmean  teeth, 
For  these  I  thought  my  dream  would 

show  to  me. 
But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art. 
Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that  made 
The    mulberry- faced    Dictator's    orgies 

worse 
Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet  Gods. 
And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell'd  and 

round  me  drove 
In  narrowing  circles  till  I  yell'd  again 
Half-suifocated,    and    sprang    up,    and 

saw  — 
Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest  day  ? 

"  Then,  then,  from  utter  gloom  stood 

out  the  breasts. 
The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly  a 

sword 
Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct. 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down 

shamed 
At  all  that  beauty ;  and  as  I  stared,  a 

fire. 
The  fire  that  left  a  roofless  Hion, 
Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch'd  me  that 

I  woke. 


"Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus, 
thine. 
Because  1  would  not  one  of  thine  own 

doves, 
Notev'n  arose,  wereofFer'dto thee  ?  thine, 
Forgetful  how  my  rich  proceniiou  makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field. 
In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity  ? 

"Deity?  nay,  thy  worshippers.     My 

tongue 
Trips,  or  I  speak  profanely.     Which  of 

these 
Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at  all  ? 
Not  if  thou  be'st  of  those  who,  far  aloof 
From  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite  and 

scorn. 
Live  the  great  life  which  all  our  greate.st 

fain 
Would  follow,  centred  in  eternal  calm. 

"  Nay,  if  thou  canst,  0  Goddess,  like 

ourselves 
Touch,  and  be  touch'd,  then  would  I  cry 

to  thee 
To  kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll  thy  tender  arms 
Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the  lust 

of  blood 
That  makes  A  steaming  slaughter-house 

of  Rome. 

"  Ay,  but  I  meant  not  thee  ;  I  meant 

not  lier. 
Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to  see 
Slide  from  tliat  quiet  heaven  of  hers,  and 

tempt 
The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  wefe 

abroad  ; 
Nor  her  that  o'er  her  wounded  hunter 

wept 
Her  Deity  false  in  human-amorous  tears  ; 
Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.     Rather,  0  ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  gi-eat  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also  —  did  I  take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow  forth 
The  all-generating  powers  and  genial  heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro'  the 

thick  blood 
Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lambs 

are  glad 
Nosing  the  mother's  udder,  and  the  bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze  of 

flowers  : 
Which  things  appear  the  work  of  mighty 

Gotls. 


126 


LUCRETIUS. 


"  The  Gods  !  and  if  I  go  my  work  is  left 
Uiilinish'd  —  if  \  go.     The  Gods,  who 

haunt 
The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world, 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves  a 

wind, 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of  snow. 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans. 
Nor  sound  ofhuman  sorrow  mounts  to  mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm  !  and  such. 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm. 
Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may  gain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.     The  Gods,  the 

Gods! 
If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the  Gods 
Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble. 
Not  follow  the  great  law  ?    Mymasterheld 
That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so  believe. 
1  prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 
Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a  train 
Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 
That   Gods    there    are,   and    deathless. 

Meant  ?  I  meant  ? 
I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant :  my  mind 
Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are  lamed. 

"  Look  where  another  of  our  Gods,  the 

Sun, 
Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
All-seeing  Hyperion  —  what  you  will  — 
Has  mounted  yonder ;  since  he  never 

sware, 
Except    his    wrath   were    wreak'd    on 

wretched  man, 
That  he  would  only  shine  among  the  dead 
Hereafter  ;  tales  !  for  never  yet  on  earth 
Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roast- 
ing ox 
Moan  round  the  spit—  nor  knows  he  what 

he  sees  ; 
King  of  the  East  altho'  he  seem,  and  girt 
Wi  th  song  and  flame  and  fragrance,  slowly 

lifts 
His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled  stairs 
That  climb  into  the  windy  halls  of  heaven  : 
And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new-born. 
And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of  pain  ; 
And  here  he  stays  upon  a  freezing  orb 
That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the  last ; 
And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  fall'n 
And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a  friend 

in  vain. 
Not  thankful  that  his  troublesare  no  more. 
And  me,  altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 
Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can  tell 
Whether  I  mean  this  day  to  end  myself. 
Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says. 


That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit  the 

post 
Allotted  by  the  Gods  :  but  he  that  holds 
The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefoi-e  need  he 

care 
Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge  at 

once, 
Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight,  and 

sink 
Past  earthquake —  ay,  andgoutand  stone, 

that  break 
Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death-in- 
life. 
And  wretched  age  —  and  worst  disease 

of  all. 
These  prodigies  of  myriad  nakednesses. 
And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeakable, 
Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 
Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every  dish. 
The  phantom  husks  of  something  foully 

done, 
And  fleeting  thro'  the  boundless  univei-se. 
And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my  breast 
With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity  ? 

' '  How  should  the  mind,  except  it  loved 

them,  clasp 
These  idols  to  herself  ?  or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like  the 

flakes 
In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  perforce 
Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an  hour 
Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and  bear 
The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their  rags 

and  they. 
The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 
Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of  the 

land  ? 

"Can  I  not  flingthis  horror  off'me  again. 
Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Nature  can 

smile. 
Balmier  andnobler  from  her  bath  of  storm, 
At  random  ravage  ?  and  how  easily 
The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy 

slough. 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A  mountain  o'er  a  mountain,  — ay,  and 

within 
All  hoUow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men  ? 

"  But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  garden 
snared 
Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods  ?  a  tale 
To  laugh  at  ^  more  to  laugh  at  in  my- 
self— 
For  look  !  what  is  it  ?  there  ?  yon  arbutus 


LUCRETIUS. 


127 


Totters  ;  a  noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  the 

tops  quivering — • 
The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph  and 

Faun  ; 
And  here  an  Oread — how  the  sun  delights 
To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery 

sides, 
And  rosy  knees  and  supple  roundedness, 
And  budded    bosom-peaks  —  who   this 

way  runs 
Before  the  rest  —  A  satyr,  a  satyr,  see, 
Follows  ;  but  him  I  proved  impossible  ; 
Twy-natured  is  no  nature  :  yet  he  draws 
Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  scan  him  now 
Beastlier  than  any  phantom  of  his  kind 
That  ever  butted  his  rough  brother-brute 
For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  ])rovender  : 
I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sickenathim ;  andshe 
Loathes  him  as  well ;  such  a  precipitate 

heel. 
Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's  ankle- 
wing. 
Whirls  her  to  me  :  but  will  she  fling  her- 
self. 
Shameless  upon  me  ?    Catch  her,  goat- 
foot  :  nay, 
Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled  wilder- 
ness, 
And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide  !  do 

I  wish  — 
What  ?  —  that  the  bush  were  leafless  ? 

or  to  whelm 
All  of  them  in  one  massacre  ?  0  ye  Gods, 
I  know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to  you 
From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I  call  — 
I  thought  I  lived  securely  as  yourselves — 
No  lewdness,  narrowing  envy,  monkey- 
spite, 
No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice,  none  : 
No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  or  pine 
With  neighbors  laid  along  the  grass,  to 

take 
Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly-warm. 
Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  — 
Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 
Of  settled,  sweet.  Epicurean  life. 
But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  monster 

Jays 
His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my  will. 
Wrenching  it  backward  into  his  ;   and 

spoils 
My  bliss  in  being  ;  and  it  was  not  great ; 
For  save  when  shutting  reasons   up  in 

rhythm, 
Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words. 
To  make  a  truth  less  harsh,  1  often  grew 


Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life, 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life  — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an  hour 

Crown'd  with  a  flower  or  two,  and  there 
an  end  — 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems  to 
fade, 

Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  myself, 

Not  manlike  end  myself?  —  our  privi- 
lege— 

What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it  ?  And 
what  man. 

What  Roman  would  be  dragg'd  in  tri- 
umph thus  ? 

Not  I ;  not  he,  who  bears  one  name  with 
her 

Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless 
doom  of  kings, 

When,  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in  her 
veins. 

She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  CoUatine 

And  all  hispeers,  flushingtheguiltlessair. 

Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her 
heart. 

And  from  it  sprang  the  Commonwealth, 
which  breaks 

As  I  am  breaking  now  ! 

"And  therefore  now 
Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb  of  all, 
Great  Nature,  take,  and  forcing  far  apart  1 

Those  blind  beginnings  that  have  made 

me  man 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Through  all  her  cycles  • —  into  man  once 

more. 
Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent  flower  : 
But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd  into  one  earthquake  in  one  day 
Cracks  all  to  pieces,  — and  that  hour  per- 
haps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a  something  to  him- 
self. 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes 

and  fanes. 
And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within  the 

grave, 
The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself  shall  pass, 
Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and  void. 
Into  the  unseen  for  ever,  —  till  that  hour. 
My  golden  work  in  which  I  told  a  truth 
That  .stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel, 
And   numbs   the   Fury's   ringlet-snake, 

and  plucks 
The  mortal  soul  from  out  immortal  hell, 
Shall  .stand  :  ay,  surely  :  then  it  failsat  last 


128 


DEDICATION. 


And  perishes  as  I  must ;  for  0  Thou, 
Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd  after  by  the  wisest  of  the  wise, 
Who  fail  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou  art 
Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one 

pain, 
Howbeit  I  knowthousurelymustbemine 
Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 
I  woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 
How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so  they 

win  — 
Thus  —  thus  :  the  soul  flies  out  and  dies 

in  the  air." 


With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into  his 
side  : 

She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall ; 
ran  in, 

Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon  her- 
self 

As  having  fail'd  in  duty  to  him,shriek'd 

That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back,  fell 
on  him. 

Clasp' d,  kiss'd  him,  wail'd :  he  answer'd, 
"Care  not  thou  ! 

Thy  duty  ?  What  is  duty  ?  Fare  thee 
weU  ! " 


IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING. 


'  Flos  Regum  Arthurus." 

Joseph  of  Exeter. 


DEDICATION. 

These  to  His  Memory  —  since  he  held 

them  dear, 
Perchance  as  finding  there  unconsciously 
Some  image  of  himself  —  I  dedicate, 
I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears  — 
These  Idylls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 
"  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his 

king  ; 
Whose    glory    was,    redressing    human 

wrong  ; 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd 

to  it; 
Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to 

her  —  " 
Her  —  over  all  whose  realms  to  their  last 

isle, 
Commingled  with   the  gloom  of  immi- 
nent war, 
The  shadow  of  His  loss  drew  like  eclipse, 
Darkening   the    world.     We   have   lost 

him  :  he  is  gone  : 
We  know  him  now  :  all  narrow  jealousies 
Are  silent  ;  and  we  see  him  as  he  moved. 
How  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish'd, 

wise, 
With  what  .sublime  repression  of  himself. 
And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly  ; 
Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that ; 


Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless 

perch 
Ofwing'dambitions,nor  a  vantage-ground 
For  pleasure  ;  but  thro'  all  this  tract  of 

years 
Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless 

life. 
Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 
In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a 

throne, 
And  blackens  every  blot :  for  where  is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  moreunstain'd,  than  his? 
Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of  his 

sons 
Hope  more  forthese  than  some  inheritance 
Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine. 
Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be. 
Laborious  for  her  people  and  her  poor — 
Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler  day  — 
Far-sighted  sumnioner  of  War  and  Waste 
To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of  peace  — 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious  gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince  in- 
deed. 
Beyond  all  titles,  and  a  household  name, 
Hereafter,  thro'  all  times,  Albert  the  Good. 

Break  not,  0  woman's-heart,  but  still 
endure  ; 
Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but  endure. 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  star 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


129 


Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee,  that 

ye  made 
One  light  together,  but  has  past  and  leaves 
The  Crown  a  lonely  splendor. 

May  all  love. 
His  love,  unseen   but  felt,  o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish 

Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort  Thee, 
Till  God's  love  set  Thee  at  his  side  again  ! 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 

Leodogkan,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 
Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other 

child  ; 
And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on  earth, 
Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

Formany  a  petty  king  ere  Arthur  came 
Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging  war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land  ; 
And  still  from  time  to  time  the  heathen 

host 
Swarm'd  overseas,  and  harried  what  was 

left. 
And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wilder- 
ness. 
Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and 

more, 
But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur 

came. 
For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought  and 

died. 
And  after  him  King  tJther  fought  and 

died, 
But  either  farl'dtomake  the  kingdom  one. 
And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a  space, 
And  thro'  the  puissance   of  his   Table 

Round, 
Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  under 

him. 
Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a  realm, 

and  reign'd. 

And  thus  the  land  of  Cameliard  was 

waste, 
Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a  bea.st 

therein, 
And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  cha.se  the 

beast  ; 
So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolf  and  boar  and 

bear 


Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in  the 

-fields. 
And  wallow'd  in  the  gardens  of  the  king. 
And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would  steal 
The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and 

then, 
Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her  fierce 

teat 
To  human  sucklings  ;  and  the  children, 

housed 
In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meatwould 

growl, 
Andmock  their  foster-mother  onfour  feet. 
Till,  straighten' d,  they  grew  up  to  wolf- 
like men. 
Worse  than  the  wolves.   And  King  Leodo- 

gran 
Groan'dfor  theRoman  legionshere  again. 
And  Caesar's  eagle  :  then  his  brother  king, 
Rience,  assail'dhim  :  last  a  heathen  horde. 
Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and  earth 

with  blood, 
And  on  the  spike  that  split  the  mother's 

heart 
Spitting  the  child,  brake  on  him,  till, 

amazed, 
He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn  for 

aid. 

But  —  for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 

crown'd, 
Tho'  not  without  an  uproar  made  by  those 
Who  cried,  "  He  is  not  Uther's  son  "  — 

the  king 
Sent  to  him,  saying,   "Arise,  and  help 

us  thou  ! 
For  here  between  the  man  and  beast  we 

die." 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed  of 
arras, 
But  heard  the  call,  and  came  :  and  Guin- 
evere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him 

pass  ; 
But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or 

shield 
The  golden  s5rmbol  of  his  kinglihood. 
But  rode  a  simple   knight  among  his 

knights, 
And  many  of  these  in  richer  anns  than  he, 
She.sawhimnot,  ormark'dnot,  if  shesaw. 
One  among  many,  tho*  his  face  was  bare. 
But  Arthur,  lookingdownwanl  as  he  past. 
Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 
Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and 
pitch'd 


130 


THE   COMING  OF  ARl'HUK. 


His  tents  beside  the  forest.   And  he  drave 
The  heathen,  and  he  slew  the  beast,  and 

fell'd 
The  forest,  and  let  in  the  sun,  and  made 
Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and  the 

knight ; 
And  so  return' d. 

For  while  he  linger'd  there, 
A  doubt  that  ever  smoulder'd  in  the  hearts 
Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of  his 

realm 
Flash'd  forth  and  into  war :  for  most  of 

these 
Made  head  against  him,  crying,  ' '  Who 

is  he 
That  he  should  rule  us  ?  who  hath  proven 

him. 
King  Uther's  son  ?  for  lo !  we  look  at  him 
And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs  nor 

voice, 
Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we  knew. 
This  is  the  son  of  Gorlois,  not  the  king  ; 
This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the  king." 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to  battle, 

felt 
Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the  life, 
Desiring  to  be  join'd  with  Guinevere  ; 
And  thinking  as  he  rode,  "Her  father 

said 
That  there  between  the  man  and  beast 

they  die. 
Shall  I  not  lift  her  from  this  land  of  beasts 
Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side  with 

me? 
What  happiness  to  reign  a  lonely  king, 
Vext  —  0  ye  stars  that  shudder  over  me, 

0  earth  that  soundest  hollow  under  me, 
Vext  with  waste  dreams  ?  for  saving  I  be 

join'd 
To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1  seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world. 
And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my 

work 
Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own 

realm 
Victor  and  lord.     But  were  I  join'd  with 

her. 
Then  might  we  live  together  as  one  life, 
And  reigning  with  one  will  in  everything 
Have  power  on  this  dark  land  to  lighten  it. 
And  power  on  this  dead  world  to  make  it 

live." 

And  Arthur  from  the  field  of  battlesent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 


His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leodo- 

gran, 
Saying,  "  If  I  in  aught  have  served  thee 

well. 
Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to  wife. " 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran  in 

heart 
Debating — "How  should  I  that  am  a 

king. 
However  much  he  holp  me  at  my  need. 
Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a  king, 
And  a  king's  son  "  —  lifted  his  voice,  and 

call'd 
A  hoary  man,  his  chamberlain,  to  whom 
He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him  required 
His  counsel  :  ' '  Knowest  thou  aught  of 

Arthur's  birth  ? " 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain  and 

said, 
"  Sir  king,  there  be  but  two  old  men  that 

know  : 
And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ;  and  one 
Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever  served 
King  Uther  thro'  his  magic  art ;  and  one 
IsMerlin'smaster  (so  they  call  him)  Bleys, 
Who  taught  him  magic  ;  but  the  scholar 

ran 
Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that  Bleys 
Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and 

wrote 
All  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 
Inonegreat  annal-book,  where  after-years 
Will   learn  the  secret   of  our   Arthur's 

birth." 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran  replied, 
' '  0  friend,  had  I  been  holpen  half  as  well 
By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to-day, 
Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their  share 

of  me  : 
But  summon  here  before  us  yet  once  more 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere." 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him,  the 

king  said, 
"  I  have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by  les.ser 

fowl. 
And  reason  in  the  chase  :  but  wherefore 

now 
Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat  of 

war. 
Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlois, 
Others  of  Anton  ?  Tell  me,  ye  yourselves. 
Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  Uther's 

son  ? " 


THE  COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


131 


And    Dlfius   and    Brastias   answer'd, 

"Ay." 
Then  Bedivere,  the  first  of  all  his  knights 
Knighted    by  Arthur  at   his  crowning, 

spake  — 
For  bold  inheartandact  and  word  was  he, 
Whenever  slander  breathed  against  the 

king  — 

•'Sir,  there  be  many  rumors  on  this 

head  : 
For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in  their 

hearts. 
Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways 

are  sweet, 
And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less  than 

man  : 
And  there  be  those  who  deem  him  more 

than  man, 
And  dream  hedroptfrom  heaven  :  but  my 

belief 
In  all  this  matter  —  .so  ye  care  to  learn  — 
Sir,  foryeknowthatin  King  Uther's  time 
The  prince  and  warrior  Gorlois,  he  that 

held 
Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea. 
Was  wedded  with  a  winsome  wife,  Ygerne : 
And  daughters  had  she  borne  him,  —  one 

whereof, 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bellicent, 
Hath  ever  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur,  — buta  son  .she  had  not  borne. 
And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love  : 
But  she,  a  stainless  wife  to  Gorlois, 
So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his  love, 
ThatGorloisand  King  Uther  went  to  war : 
And  overthrown  was  Gorlois  and  slain. 
Then  Utherinhis  wrath  and  heat  besieged 
Ygerne  within  Tintagil,  where  her  men. 
Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their 

walls. 
Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter'd  in. 
And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  himself. 
So,  compass'd  by  the  power  of  the  king, 
Enforc'd  she  was  to  wed  him  in  her  tears, 
And  with  ashameful  swiftness;  afterward, 
Not  many  moons.  King  Uther  died  him- 
self, 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to  rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to 

wrack. 
And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the 

new  year, 
By  rea.son  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  nis  time 
Was  Arthur  bom,  and  all  as  .soon  a.s  bom 
Deliver'd  at  a  secret  postern  gate 


To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 
Until  his  hour  should  come  ;  because  the 

lords 
Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of  this. 
Wild  beasts,  and  surely  would  have  torn 

the  child 
Piecemeal  among  them,  had  they  known; 

for  each 
But  sought  to  rule  for  his  own  self  and 

hand, 
And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Gorlois.     Wherefore  Merlin  took  the 

child. 
And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old  knight 
Andaucientfriend  of  Uther  ;  and  his  wife 
Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear'd  him 

with  her  own  ; 
And  no  man  knew.     And  ever  since  the 

lords 
Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among 

themselves. 
So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack  : 

but  now. 
This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour  had 

come) 
Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in  the 

hall, 
Proclaiming,  '  Here  is  Uther's  heir,  your 

king," 
A  hundred  voices  cried,  'Away  with  him  ! 
No  king  of  ours  !  a  son  of  Gorlois  he, 
Or  else  the  child  of  Anton,  and  no  king. 
Or  else  baseborn.'     Yet  Merlin  thro'  his 

craft. 
And  while  the  people  clamor'd  for  a  king, 
Had  Arthur  crown'd ;  but  after,  the  great 

lords 
Banded,  and  so  brake  out  in  open  war." 

Then  while  the  king  debated  with  him- 
self 
If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shamefulness. 
Or  bom  the  son  of  Gorlois,  after  death, 
Or  Uther's  son,  and  born  before  his  time, 
Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  anything 
Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to  Came- 

liard. 
With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her  two 

sons. 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Belli- 
cent ; 
Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would,  the 

king 
Made  feast  tor,  saying,  as  they  sat  at  meat, 

"A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  siuunier 
seas  — 


132 


THE   COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


Ye  come  from  Arthur's  court  :  think  ye 

this  king  — 
So  few  his  knights,  however  brave  they 

be  — 
Hath  body  enow  to  beat  his  foemen 

down  ? " 

"  0  king,"  she  cried,  "and  I  will  tell 

thee  :  few, 
Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind  with 

him  ; 
For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage  yells 
Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthur  sat 
Crown'd  on  the  dais,  and  his  warriors 

cried, 
'  Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work  thy 

will 
Who  love  thee.'     Then  the  king  in  low 

deep  tones, 
And  simple  words  of  great  authority. 
Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his  own 

self, 
That  when  they  rose,    knighted  from 

kneeling,  some 
Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a  ghost, 
Some  flush' d,  and  others  dazed,  as  one 

who  wakes 
Half -blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  light. 

"  But  when  he  spake  and  cheer'd  his 

Table  Round 
With  large  divine  and  comfortable  words 
Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee — I  beheld 
From  eye  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order  flash 
A  momentary  likeness  of  the  king  : 
And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the  cross 
And  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 
Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur, 

smote 
Flame-color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three  rays. 
One  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair  queens, 
Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne,  the 

friends 
Of  Arthur,  gazingonhim,  tall,  with  bright 
Sweetfaces,  whowillhelp  himat  his  need. 

"  And  there  I  saw  mage  Merlin,  whose 
vast  wit 
And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the  hands 
Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

"  And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake, 

Who  knows  a  subtler  magic  than  his 
own  — 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful. 


She  gave  the  king  his  huge  cross-hilted 

sword, 
Wherebytodrivethe  heathen  out  :  a  mist 
Of  incense  curl'd  about  her,  and  her  face 
Wellnigh   was  hidden   in   the   minster 

gloom  ; 
But  there   was  heard  among  the   holy 

hymns 
A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she  dwells 
Down  in  a  deep,  calm,  whatsoever  storms 
May  shake  the  world,  and  when  the  sur- 
face rolls. 
Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like  our 
Lord. 

"There  like^vise  I  beheld  Excalibur 
Before  him  at  his  crowning  borne,  the 

sword 
That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
And  Arthur  row'd  across  and  took  it  — 

rich 
With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt, 
Bewildering  heart  and  eye  —  the  blade 

so  bright 
That  men  areblinded  b}'^  it  —  on  one  side. 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this 

world, 
'Take  me,'  but  turn  the  blade  and  you 

shall  see. 
And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak  your- 
self, 
'  Cast  me  away  ! '     And  sad  was  Arthur's 

face 
Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell'd  him, 
'  Take  thou  and  strike  !  the  time  to  cast 

away 
Is  yet  far-otf. '   So  this  great  brand  the  king 
Took,  and  by  this  wUl  beat  his  foemen 

down." 

Thereat     Leodogran     rejoiced,     but 

thought 
Tosift  hisdoubtingstothelast,  and  ask'd, 
Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her  face, 
"  The  swallow  and  the  swiftare  near  akin, 
But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince, 
Beinghisown  dear  sister"  ;  and  she  said, 
"Daughter  of  Gorlois  and  Ygerne   am 

1"  ; 
"  And  therefore  Arthur's  sister,"  ask'd 

the  King. 
She  answer'd,  "These  be  secret  things," 

and  sign'd 
To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let  them  be. 
And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into  song 
Sprang  out,  and  follow' d  by  his  flying 

hair. 


THE   COMING   OF   ARTHUR. 


133 


Ran  like  a  colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he  saw  : 
But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the  doors, 
And  there  half  heard  ;  the  same  that  af- 
terward 
Struck  for  the  throne,  and  striking  found 
his  doom. 

And  then  the   Queen  made  answer, 

"What  know  I? 
For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and 

hair. 
And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I  ;  and  dark 
Was  Gorlois,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther 

too, 
Wellnigh  to  blackness  ;  but  this  king  is 

fair 
Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 
Moreover  always  in  my  mind  I  hear 
A  cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 
A  mother  weeping,  and  1  hear  her  say, 
'  0  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty  one. 
To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of  the 

world.' " 

"Ay,"  said  the  King,  "and  hear  ye 
such  a  cry  ? 
But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon  thee 
first?" 

"0  king  ! "  she  cried,  "  and  I  will  tell 

thee  true  : 
He  found  me  first  when  yet  a  little  maid : 
Beaten  I  had  been  for  a  little  fault 
Whereof  I  was  not  guilty  ;  and  out  I  ran 
And  flung  myself  down  on  abank  of  heath. 
And  hated  this  fair  world  and  all  therein, 
And  wept,  and  wish'd  that  I  were  dead  ; 

and  he  — 
I  know  not  whether  of  himself  he  came. 
Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say,  can 

walk 
Unseen  at  pleasure  —  he  was  at  my  side. 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted 

my  heart, 
And  dried  my  tears,  being  a  child  with  me. 
And  many  a  time  he  came,  and  evermore 
As  I  grew  greater  grew  with  me  ;  and  sad 
At  times  ne  seem'd,  and  sad  with  him 

was  I, 
Stem  too  at  times,  and  then  I  loved  him 

not, 
Butsweetagain,and  then  I  loved  him  well. 
And  now  of  late  I  see  him  less  and  less. 
But  those  first  days  had  golden  hours  for 

me. 
For  then  I  surely  thought  he  would  be 

king. 


"  But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another  tale : 
For  Bleys,  our  Merlin's  master,  as  they 

say, 
Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to  me. 
To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his  life. 
Shrunk  like  a  fairy  changeling  lay  the 

mage. 
And  when  I  enter'd  told  me  that  himself 
And  Merlin  ever  served  about  the  king, 
Uther,  before  he  died,  and  on  the  night 
When  Uther  in  Tintagil  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the  two 
Left  the  still  king,  and  passing  forth  to 

breathe, 
Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the  chasm 
Descending  thro'  the  dismal  night  —  a 

night 
In  which  the  bounds  of  heaven  and  earth 

were  lost  — 
Beheld,  so  high  upon  the  dreary  deeps 
It  seem'd  in  heaven,  a  ship,  the  shape 

thereof 
A  dragon  wing'd,  and  all  from  stem  to  stern 
Bright  with  a  shining  people  on  the  decks, 
Andgone  as  soon  as  seen.     And  then  the 

two 
Dropt  to  the  cove,  and  watch'd  the  great 

sea  fall, 
Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than  the 

last, 
Till  last,  a  ninth  one,  gathering  half  the 

deep 
And  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and  plunged 
Roaring,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a  flame  : 
And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  llame  was 

borne 
A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin's  feet, 
Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and 

cried  '  The  King  ! 
Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther  ! '  And  the  fringe 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  \ip  the 

strand, 
Lash'd  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the  word. 
And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in  fire, 
So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed  in 

fire. 
And  presently  thereafter  foUow'd  calm, 
Free  sky  and   stars :  '  And   this  same 

child,'  he  said, 
'Is  he  who  reigns  ;  nor  could  I  part  in 

peace 
Till  this  were  told. '     And  saying  this  the 

seer 
Went  thro'  the  strait  and  dreadful  pass 

of  death, 
Not  ever  to  be  question'd  any  more 
Save  on  the  further  side  ;  but  when  I  met 


134 


THE   COMING   OF  AKTHUR. 


Merlin,  and  ask'd  him  if  these  things 

were  truth  — 
The  shining  dragon  and  the  naked  child 
Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas  — 
He  laugh'd  as  is  his  wont,  and  answer'd  me 
In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and  said  : 

'"Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  in 
the  sky  ! 
A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by  ; 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he  die. 
Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  on  the 
lea! 
And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to  thee  ; 
And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it  be. 
Rain,  sun,  and  rain  !  and  the  free  blos- 
som blows : 
Sun,  rain,  and  sun  !  and  where  is  he  who 

knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he 
goes.' 

"So  Merlin  riddling  anger'd  me  ;  but 

thou 
Fear  not  to  give  this  king  thine  only  child, 
Guinevere :  so  great  bards  of  him  will  sing 
Hereafter  ;  and  dark  sayings  from  of  old 
Ranging  and  ringing  thro'  the  minds  of 

men, 
And  echo'd  by  old  folk  beside  their  fires 
For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is  done. 
Speak  of  the  king ;  and  Merlin  in  our  time 
Hath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and  sworn 
Tho'  men  may  wound  him  that  he  will 

not  die, 
But  pass,  again  to  come ;  and  then  or  now 
Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot. 
Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for  their 

king." 

She  spake  and  King  Leodogran rejoiced, 
But  musing ' '  Shall  I  answer  yea  or  nay  ? " 
Doubted,  and  drowsed,  nodded  and  slept, 

and  saw, 
Dreaming,  a  slope  of  land  that  ever  grew. 
Field  after  field,  up  to  a  height,  the  peak 
Haze-hidden,  and  thereon  a  phantom 

king, 
Now  looming,  and  now  lost ;  and  on  the 

slope 
The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd 

was  driven. 
Fire  glimpsed ;  and  all  the  land  from 

roof  and  rick. 
In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a  rolling  wind, 
Stream'd  to  the  peak,  and  mingled  with 

the  haze 


And  made  it  thicker  ;  while  the  phantom 

king 
Sent  out  at  times  a  voice  ;  and  here  or 

there 
Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the  voice, 

the  rest 
Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  "  No  king  of 

ours. 
No  son  of  Uther,  and  no  king  of  ours  "  ; 
Till  with  a  wink  his  dream  was  changed, 

the  haze 
Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  became 
As  nothing,  and  the  king  stood  out  in 

heaven. 
Crown' d.  And  Leodogran  awoke,  and  sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answering  yea. 

Then  Arthur  charged  his  warrior  whom 
he  loved 
And  honor'd  most,  Sir  Lancelot,  to  ride 

forth 
And  bring  the   Queen  ;  —  and  watch'd 

him  from  the  gates  : 
And    Lancelot    past    away  among  the 

flowers, 
(For  then  was  latter  April)  and  retum'd 
Among  the  flowers,  in  May,  with  Guin- 
evere. 
To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high 

saint. 
Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  and  before 
Thestateliestof  heraltar-shrines,  the  king 
That  morn  was  married,  while  in  stain- 
less white. 
The  fair  beginners  of  a  nobler  time. 
And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  him, 

his  knights 
Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his 

joy- 

And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands  and 

spake, 
"Reign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and  make 

the  world 
Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one  with 

thee. 
And  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table  Round 
Fulfil  the  boundless  purpose  of  their 

king." 

Then  at  the  marriage  feast  came  in 

from  Rome, 
The  slowly-fading  mistress  of  the  world, 
Great  lords,  who  claim'd  the  tribute  as 

of  yore. 
But  Arthur  spake,   "  Behold,  for  these 

have  sworn 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


135 


To  fight  my  wars,  and  worship  me  their 

king; 
The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new  ; 
And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and  old 
To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Roman 

wall, 
No  tribute  will  we  pay  "  :  so  those  great 

lords 
Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur  strove 

with  Rome. 

And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for  a 

space 
"Were  all  one  wUl,  and  thro'  that  strength 

the  king 
Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under  him. 
Fought,    and  in   twelve   great   battles 

overcame 
The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a  realm 

and  reign' d. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 

Thk  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's 

court, 
A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 
Of  that  great  order  of  the  Table  Round, 
Had  married  Enid,  Yniol's  only  child. 
And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light  of 

Heaven. 
And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 
At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 
With  moon  and  trembling  stars,  so  loved 

Geraint 
To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day. 
In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 
And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  husband's 

eye. 
Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in  a 

state 
Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  him 
In  some  fresh  splendor ;  and  the  Queen 

herself, 
Grateful  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service 

done. 
Loved  her,  and  often  with  her  own  white 

hands 
Array'd  and  deck'd  her,  as  the  loveliest, 
Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the  court. 
And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with 

true  heart 
Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the  best 
And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 
And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so  close. 


Long  in  their    common   love   rejoiced 

Geraint. 
But  when  a  rumor  rose  about  the  Queen, 
Touching  her  guilty  ^ove  for  Lancelot, 
Tho'  yet  there  lived  no  proof,  nor  yet 

was  heard 
The  world's  loud  whisper  breaking  into 

storm. 
Not  less  Geraint  believed  it ;  and  there  fell 
A  horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife. 
Thro' that  great  tenderness  for  Guinevere, 
Had  suffer' d,  or  should  suffer  any  taint 
In  nature  :  wherefore  going  to  the  king. 
He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  princedom 

lay 
Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territory. 
Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitiff 

knights, 
Assassins,  and  all  fliers  from  the  hand 
Of  Justice,  and  whatever  loathes  a  law  : 
And  therefore,  till  the  king  himself  should 

please 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  his 

realm, 
He  craved  a  fair  permission  to  depart, 
And  there  defend  his  marches  ;  and  the 

king 
Mused  for  a  little  on  his  plea,  but,  last, 
Allowing  it,  the  Prince  and  Enid  rode, 
And  fifty  knights   rode  with  them,  to 

the  shores 
OfSevem,  andtheypasttotheirownland ; 
Where,  thinking,  that  if  everyet  was  wife 
True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me, 
He  compass'd  her  with  sweet  observances 
And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and  grew 
Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  king, 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt. 
Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name, 
Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its  cares. 
And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful  to  her. 
And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they  met 
In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  com])aiiies, 
Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of  him 
As  of  aprince  whose  manhood  wasallgoiie. 
And  molten  down  in  mere  uxoriousness. 
And  this  she  gather'd  from  the  people's 

eyes  : 
This  too  the  woman  who  attired  her  head, 
To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  boundless 

love, 
Told  Enid,  and  they  sadden'd  her  the 

more : 
And   day   by  day  she  thought  to  tell 

Geraint, 
But  could  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy  ; 


136 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


While  he  that  watch'd  her  sadden,  was 

the  more 
Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a  taint. 

At  last  it  chanced  that  on  a  summer 
mom 
(They  sleeping  each  by  either)  the  new  sun 
Beat  thro'  the  blindless  casement  of  the 

room, 
And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his 

dreams  ; 
Who,  moving,  cast  the  covei'let  aside, 
And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his 

throat, 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast. 
And  arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle 

sloped, 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it. 
And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  the  couch. 
Admiring  him,  and  thought  within  her- 
self, 
Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as  he  ? 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  past  the  people's  talk 
And  accusation  of  uxoriousness 
Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over  him, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously  she  said  ; 


"  0  noble  breast  and  all-puissant  arms. 
Am  I  the  cause,  I  the  poor  cause  that  men 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is 

gone? 
I  am  the  cause  because  I  dare  not  sjteak 
And  tell  him  what  I  think  and  what  they 

say. 
And  yet  I  hate  that  he  should  linger  here ; 
I  cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his  name. 
Far  liever  had  I  gird  his  harness  on  him. 
And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand  by, 
And  watch  his  niightful  hand  stilking 

great  blows 
At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the  world. 
Far  better  were  I  laid  in  the  dark  earth, 
Not  hearing  any  more  his  noble  voice. 
Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear  arms. 
And  darken'd  from  the  high  light  in  his 

eyes, 
Than  that  my  lord  thro'  me  should  suffer 

shame. 
Am  1  so  bold,  and  could  1  so  stand  by. 
And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the  strife. 
Or  maybe  pierced  to  death  before  mine 

eyes. 
And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I  think, 
And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his  force 


GEEAINT  AND   ENID. 


137 


Is  melted  into  mere  efiFeminacy  ? 

0  me,  I  fear  that  I  am  no  true  wife." 

Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she  spoke. 
And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made  her 

weep 
True  tears  upon  his  broad  and  naked 

breast. 
And  these  awoke  him,  and  by  great  mis- 
chance 
He  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later  words, 
And  that  she  fear'dshe  wasnotatrue  wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  "In  spite  of  all  my 

care, 
For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all  my  pains. 
She  is  not  faithful  to  me,  and  I  see  her 
Weeping  for  some  gay  knight  in  Arthur's 

haU." 
Then  tho'  he  loved  and  reverenced  her 

too  much 
To  dream  she  could  be  guilty  of  foul  act, 
Right  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted  the 

pang 
That  makes  a  man,  in  the  sweet  face  of  her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  misera- 
ble. 
Atthishehurl'dhishuge  limbs  out  of  bed. 
And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake  and 

cried, 
' '  My  charger  and  her  palfrey, "  then  to  her, 
"  I  will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness  ; 
For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to  win, 

1  have  notfall'nsolowassome  would  wish. 
And  you,  put  on  your  worst  and  meanest 

dress 
And  ride  with  me."     And  Enid  ask'd, 

amazed, 
"  If  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her  fault." 
But  he,  "I  charge  you,  asknot  but  obey." 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  a  faded  silk, 
A  faded  mantle  and  a  faded  veil. 
And  moving  toward  a  cedam  cabinet, 
Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  reverently 
With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between  the 

folds. 
She  took  them,  and  array'd  herself  therein, 
Remembering  when  first  he  came  on  her 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 

her  in  it, 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress, 
And  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 

court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide  before 
Held  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  on  a  day,  he  sitting  high  in  hall. 


Before  him  cam»  a  forester  of  Dean, 
Wet'from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a  hart 
Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky-white, 
First  seen  thstit  day  :  these  things  he  told 

the  king. 
Then  the  good  king  gave  order  to  let  blow 
His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow 

mom. 
And  when  the  Queen  petition'd  for  his 

leave 
To  see  the  hunt,  allow'd  it  easily. 
So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were 

gone. 
But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn, 
Lost  in  sweet^reams,  and  dreaming  of 

her  love 
For  Lancelot,  and  forgetftil  of  the  hunt ; 
But  rose  at  last,  a  single  maiden  with  her, 
Took  horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and  gain'd 

the  wood ; 
There,  on  a  little  knoll  beside  it,  stay'd 
Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds  ;  but  heard 

instead 
A  sudden  sound  of  hoofs,    for  Prince 

Geraint, 
Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting-dress 
Nor  weapon,  save  a  golden-hilted  brand, 
Came  quickly  flashing  thro'  the  shallow 

ford 
Behind  them,  and  sogallop'd  up  the  knoll. 
A  purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 
There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest  gold, 
Sway'd  round  about  him,  ashegallop'd  up 
To  join  them,  glancing  like  a  dragon-fly 
In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 
Low  bow'd  the  tributary  Prince,  and  she. 
Sweetly  and  statelily,  and  with  all  grace 
Of  womanhood  and  queenhood,  answer'd 

him  : 
"  Late,  late.  Sir  Prince,"  she  said,  "later 

than  we ! " 
"Yea,  noble  Queen,"  he  answer'd,  "  and 

so  late 
That  I  but  come  like  you  to  see  the  hunt, 
Not  join  it."    "  Therefore  wait  with  me," 

she  said  ; 
"  For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere, 
There  is  good  chance  that  we  shall  hear 

the  hounds  : 
Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our  feet. " 

And  while  they  listen'd  for  the  distant 

hunt. 
And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 
King  Arthur's  hound  of  deepest  mouth, 

there  rod« 
Full  slowly  by  a  knight,  lady,  and  dwarf; 


138 


GERAINT   AND    ENID. 


Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg'd  latest,  and  the 

knight  1 

Had  visor  up,  and  show'd  a  j'outhful  face, 

Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  lineaments. 

And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his  face 

^In  the  king's  hall,  desired  his  name,  and 

sent 
Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the  dwarf ; 
Who  heing  vicious,  old,  and  irritable, 
An  d  doubling  all  his  master' s  vice  of  pride, 
Made  answer  shai-ply  that  she  should  not 

know. 
"  Then  will  I  ask  it  of  himself,"  she  said. 
"  Nay,  by  my  faith,  thou  shaltnot,"  cried 

the  dwarf ; 
' '  Thou  art  not  worthy  «r'n  to  speak  of 

him  "  ; 
And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward  the 

knight. 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and^she  re- 

tum'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen ;  whereat  Geraint 
Exclaiming,    "Surely  I  will  learn   the 

name," 
Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd  it 

of  him. 
Who  answer'd  as  before  ;  and  when  the 

Prince 
Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward  the 

knight. 
Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut  his 

cheek. 
The  Prince's  blood  spirted  upon  the  scarf, 
Dyeingit ;  andhisquick,  instinctive  hand 
Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him  : 
But  he,  from  his  exceeding  manfulness 
And  pure  nobility  of  temperament. 
Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a  worm,  re- 
frain'd 
From  ev'n  a  word,  and  so  returning  said  : 

"Iwillavenge  this  insult,  noble  Queen, 
Done  in  your  maiden's  person  to  yourself : 
And  I  will  track  this  vermin  to  their 

earths  : 
For  tho'  I  ride  unarm'd,  I  do  not  doubt 
To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come  at,  arms 
On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge  ;  and,  being 

found. 
Then  will  I  fight  him,  and  will  break  his 

pride, 
And  on  the  third  day,  will  again  be  here. 
So  that  I  be  not  fall'n  in  fight.  Farewell. " 

"Farewell,  fair  Prince,"  answer'd  the 
stately  Queen. 
"  Be  prosperous  in  this  journey,  as  in  all ; 


And  may  ye  light  on  all  things  that  ye 

•     love. 
And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first  ye 

love  : 
But   ere  ye  wed  with  any,  bring  your 

bride. 
And  I,  were  she  the  daughter  of  a  king. 
Yea,  tho'  she  were  a  beggar  from  the  hedge. 
Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  tha 

sun." 

And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking  that 
he  heard 
The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far  horn, 
A  little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 
A  little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode. 
By  ups  and  downs,  thro'  many  a  grassy 

glade 
And  valley,  with  fixt  eye  following  the 

three. 
At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of  wood. 
And  climb'd  upon  a  fair  and  even  ridge, 
And  show'd  themselves  against  the  sky, 

and  sank. 
And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  under- 
neath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley,  on  one  side  whereof. 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  fortress 

rose  ; 
And  on  one  side  a  castle  in  decay. 
Beyond  a  bridge  that  spann'd  a  dry  ravine  : 
And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a  noise 
As  of  a  broad  brook  o'er  a  shingly  bed 
Brawling,  or  like  a  clamor  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the  night. 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the  three, 
And  enter' d,  and  were  lost  behind  the 

walls. 
"So,"  thought  Geraint,  "  I  have  track'd 

him  to  his  earth." 
And  down  the  long  street  riding  wearily. 
Found  every  hostel  full,  and  everywhere  , 
Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot  hiss 
And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who 

scour'd 
His  master's  armor  ;  and  of  such  a  one 
He  ask'd,  "What  means  the  tumult  in 

the  town  ?" 
Who  told  him,  scouring  still  "  The  spar- 
row-hawk ! " 
Then  ridingclose behindan  ancient  churl. 
Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping  beam. 
Went  sweating  underneath  a  sack  of  com, 
Ask'd  yet  once  more  what  meant  the  hub- 
bub here  ? 


GERAINT   AND    ENID. 


139 


"  Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley. ' 


Who  answer'd  gruffly,      Ugh  !  the  spar- 
row-hawk." 
,.  Then  riding  further  past  an  armorer's, 
Who,  with  back  tum'd,  and  bow'd  above 

his  work. 
Sat  riveting  a  helmet  on  his  knee, 
He  put  the  self-same  query,  but  the  man 
Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at  him, 

said  : 
"  Friend,  ne  that  labors  for  the  sparrow- 
hawk 
ifas  little  time  for  idle  questioners." 
Whereat    Geraint    flash  d   into    sudden 

spleen  : 
• '  A  thousand  pips  eat  up  your  sparrow- 
hawk  t 


Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wing'd  nothings  peck 
him  dead  ! 

Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your  bourg 

The  murmur  of  the  world  !  What  is  it 
to  me  ? 

0  wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and  all, 

Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow- 
hawks  ! 

Speak,  if  ye  be  not  like  the  rest,  hawk- 
mad. 

Where  can  I  get  me  harborage  for  the 
night  ? 

And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  fight  my  enemy  ? 
Speak  ! " 

At  this  the  armorer  turning  all  amazed 

And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks, 


140 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in  hand 
And  answer' d,  "Pardon  me,  0  stranger 

knight ; 
We  hold  a  tourney  here  to-morrow  mom, 
Andthereisscantly  time  for  half  the  work. 
Arms?  truth!  I  know  not;  all  are  wanted 

here. 
Harborage  ?  truth,  good  truth,  I  know 

not,  save, 
It  may  be,  at  Earl  Yniol's,  o'er  the  bridge 
Yonder."  Hespokeandfell  to  work  again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a  little  spleenful 

yet. 

Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the  dry 

ravine. 
There  musing  sat  the  hoary -headed  Earl, 
(His  dress  a  suit  of  fray'd  magnificence, 
Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and  said  ; 
"Whither,  fair  son  ?"  to  whom  Geraint 

replied, 
"0  friend,  I  seek  a  harborage  for  the 

night." 
Then  Yniol, ' '  Enter  therefore  and  partake 
The  slender  entertainment  of  a  house 
Once  rich,   now  poor,   but  ever  open- 

door'd." 
"Thanks,  venerable  friend,"  replied  Ge- 
raint ; 
"So  that  ye  do  not  serve  me  sparrow- 
hawks 
For  supper,  I  will  enter,  I  will  eat 
With  all  the  passion  of  a  twelve  hours' 

fast." 
Then  sigh'd  and  smiled  the  hoary -headed 

Earl, 
And  answer'd,  "  Graver  cause  than  yours 

is  mine 
To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the  sparrow- 
hawk  : 
But  in,  go  in  ;  for  save  yourself  desire  it, 
We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev'n  in  jest." 

Then  rode  Geraint  into  the  castle  court, 
Hischarger  trampling  many  a  prickly  star 
Of  sprouted  thistle  on  the  broken  stones. 
He  look'd  and  saw  that  all  was  ruinous. 
Here  stood  a  shatter'd  archway  plumed 

with  fern  ; 
And  here  had  fall'n  a  great  part  of  a  tower, 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from  the 

clifj; 
And  like  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding 

flowers  : 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair. 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent, 

wound 


Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy-stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy-fibred 

arms, 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones,  and 

look'd 
A  knot,  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a  grove. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle  court. 
The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol's  daughter,  rang 
Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  of  the  Hall, 
Singing ;   and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a 

bird. 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  isle, 
Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird 

it  is 
That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and  make 
Conjecture  ofthe  plumage  and  the  form  ; 
So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved  Geraint ; 
And  made  him  like  a  man  abroad  at  mom 
When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of 

men 
Comes  flying  over  many  a  windy  wave 
To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemm'd  with  green 

and  red, 
And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a 

friend. 
Or  it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
To  think  or  say,  "there  is  the  nightin- 
gale "  ; 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought  and 

said, 
"Here,  by  God's  grace,  is  the  one  voice 

for  me." 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang  was 
one 
Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid  sang  : 

"Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and 

lower  the  proud ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine,  storm, 

and  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor 

hate. 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with 

smile  or  frown  ; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 

great. 

"Smile  and   we   smile,    the  lords  of 

many  lands  ; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own 

hands ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


141 


"Turn,    turn   thy    wheel  above  the 

staring  crowd  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the 

cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor 

hate." 

"  Hark,  by  the  bird's  song  you  may 
learn  the  nest " 
Said  Yniol ;  "Enter  quickly."     Enter- 
ing then, 
Right  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-fallen  stones, 
The  dusky-rafter'd  many-cobweb'd  Hall, 
He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  bro- 
cade; 
And  near  her,  like  a  blossom  vermeil- 
white, 


That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower-sheath, 
Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk, 
Her  daughter.     In  a  moment  thought 

Geraint, 
"  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for 

me." 
But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary 

Earl: 
"Enid,  the  good  knight's  horse  stands  in 

the  court ; 
Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  corn, 

and  then 
Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and 

wine; 
And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 

great." 


"  In  a  moment  thought  Geraint, 
'  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for  me.* 


142 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


He  spake  :  the  Prince,  as  Enid  past 

him,  fain 
To  follow,  strode  a  stride,  but  Yniol  caught 
His  purple   scarf,  and   held,   and  said 

"Forbear ! 
Rest !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  0  my 

Son, 
Endures  not  that  her  guest  should  serve 

himself." 
And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the  house 
Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the  stall ; 
And  after  went  her  way  across  the  bridge. 
And  reach' d  the  town,  and  while  the 

Prince  and  Earl 
Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with  one, 
A  youth,  that  following  with  a  costrel  bore 
The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh  and 

wine. 
And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make 

them  cheer. 
And  in  her  veil  enfolded,  manchet  bread. 
And  then,  because  their  haU  must  also 

serve 
For  kitchen,  boil'd  the  flesh,  and  spread 

the  board, 
And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the  three. 
And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  serviceable, 
Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  little  thumb. 
That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it  down  : 
But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 
For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his 

veins, 
Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 
On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work, 
Now  here,  now  there,  about  th  e  dusky  hall ; 
Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  Earl : 

' '  Fair  Host  and  Earl,  I  pray  your  courtesy ; 
This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he,  tell  me 

of  him. 
His  name  ?  but  no,  good  faith,  I  will  not 

have  it : 
For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  I  saw 
Ride  into  that  new  fortress  by  your  town. 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  then  have 

I  sworn 
From  his  own  lips  to  have  it  —  I  am 

Geraint 
Of  Devon  —  for  this  morning  when  the 

Queen 
Sent  her  own  maiden  todemandthe  name, 
His  dwarf,  a  vicious  under-sha))en  thing, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  re- 

tum'd 


Indignant  to  the  Queen  ;  and  then  I  swore 
That  1  would  track  this  caitiS'to  his  hold. 
And  fight  and  break  his  pride,  and  have 

it  of  him. 
And  all  unarm '  d  I  rode,  and  thought  to  find 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men 

are  mad ; 
They  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  their  bourg 
For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round  the 

world  ; 
They  would  not  hear  me  speak  :  but  if 

ye  know 
Where  I  can  light  on  arms,  or  if  yourself 
Should  have  them,  teU  me,  seeing  I  have 

sworn 
That  I  will  break  his  pride  and  learn  his 

name. 
Avenging  this  great    insult  done    the 

Queen." 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol.     ' '  Art  thou  he 

indeed, 
Geraint,  a  name  far-sounded  among  men 
For  noble  deeds  ?  and  truly  I,  when  first 
I  saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge. 
Felt  you   were  somewhat,  yea  and  by 

your  state 
And  presence  might  have  guess'd  you  one 

of  those 
That  eat  in  Arthur's  hall  at  Camelot. 
Nor  speak  1  now  from  foolish  flattery  ; 
For  this  dear  child  hath  often  heard  me 

praise 
Your  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  1 

paused 
Hath  ask'd  again,  and  ever  loved  to  hear ; 
So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To  noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of  wrong : 

0  never  yet  had  woman  such  a  pair 

Of  suitors  as  this  maiden  ;  first  Limours, 
A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and 

wine. 
Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd  ;  and  be  he 

dead 

1  know  not,  but  he  past  to  the  wild  land. 
The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow- 
hawk. 

My  curse,  my  nephew  —  I  will  not  let 
his  name 

Slip  from  my  lips  if  I  can  help  it  —  he, 

when  I  that  knew  him  fierce  and  turbu- 
lent 

Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride  awoke ; 

And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the 
mean. 

He  sow'd  a  slander  in  the  common  ear, 

Afiirming  that  his  father  left  him  gold. 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


143 


And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  ren- 

der'd  to  him  ; 
Brihed  with  large  promises  the  men  who 

served 
About  my  person,  the  more  easily 
Because  my  means  were  somewhat  broken 

into 
Thro'  open  doors  and  hospitality  ; 
Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in  the 

night 
Before  my  Enid's  birthday,  sack'd  my 

house  ; 
From  mine  own  earldom  foully  oustedme ; 
Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my  friends, 
For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me  yet ; 
And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle  here. 
Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me  soon 

to  death. 
But  that  his  pride  too  much  despises  me  : 
And  I  myself  sometimes  despise  myself ; 
For  I  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their  way ; 
Am  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used  my 

power  : 
Nor  know  I  whether  I  be  very  base 
Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 
Or  very  foolish  ;  only  this  I  know. 
That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 
I  seem  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or  limb. 
But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently." 

"Well  said,  true  heart,"  replied  Ge- 

raint,  "but  arms  : 
That  if  the  sparrow-hawk,  this  nephew, 

fight. 
In  next  day's  tourney  I  may  break  his 

pride." 

And  Yniol  answer'd  "Arms,  indeed, 
but  old 
And  rusty,  old  and  rusty.  Prince  Geraint, 
Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  your  asking, 

yours. 
But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man  tilt. 
Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there. 
Two  forks  are  fixt  into  the  meadow  ground, 
And  over  these  is  laid  a  silver  wand, 
Andover  thatisplaced  the  sparrow -hawk. 
The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest  there. 
And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in  field 
Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his  side. 
And  tilts  withmy  good  nephew  thereupon. 
Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of  bone 
Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with  him. 
And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 
Has  eam'd  himself  the  name  of  sparrow- 
hawk. 
Botyou,  that  have  no  lady,  cannot  fight." 


To  whom  Geraint  with  eyes  all  bright 
replied. 
Leaning  a  little  toward  him,    "Your 

leave '! 
Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  0  noble  host. 
For  this  dear  child,  because  I  never  saw, 
Tho'  having  seen  alL  beauties  of  our  time, 
Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so  fair. 
And  if  I  fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 
Untarnish'd  as  before  ;  but  if  I  live. 
So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  utter- 
most. 
As  I  will  make  her  truly  my  true  wife." 

Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol' s  heart 
Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better  days. 
And  looking  round  he  sawnot  Enid  there, 
(Who  hearing  her  own  name  had  slipt 

away) 
But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  tenderly 
And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  he  said, 
"  Mother,  a  maiden  is  a  tender  thing. 
And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  understood. 
Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  to  rest 
Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  toward  the 

Prince." 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Earl,  and 

she 
With  frequent  smile  and  nod  departing 

found. 
Half  disarray'd  as  to  her  rest,  the  girl ; 
Whom  first  she  kiss'd  on  either  cheek, 

and  then 
On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a  hand. 
And  kept  her  off  and  gazed  upon  her  face. 
And  told  her  all  their  converse  in  the 

hall. 
Proving  her  heart :  but  never  light  and 

shade 
Coursed  one  another  more  on  open  ground 
Beneath  a  troubled  heaven,  than  red  and 

pale 
Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her  ; 
While  slowly  falling  as  a  scale  that  falls. 
When  weight  is  added  only  grain  by  grain. 
Sank  her  sweet  head  upon  her  gentle 

breast ; 
Nor  did  she  lift  an  eye  nor  speak  a  word, 
Rapt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of  it ; 
So  moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 
She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail'd  to  draw 
The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but  lay 
Contemplating  her  own  unworthiness  ; 
And  when  the  pale  and   bloodless  east 

began 
To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and  raised 


144 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


Her  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand  they 

moved 
Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts 

were  held, 
And  waited  there  for  Yniol  and  Geraint. 

And  thither  came  the  twain,  and  when 

Geraint 
Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him. 
He  felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily  force, 
Hiihself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could 

move 
The  chair  of  Idris.     Yniol's  rusted  arms 
Were  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro' 

these 
Princelike  his  bearing  shone  ;  and  errant 

knights 
And  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the  town 
riow'd  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the 

lists. 
And  there  they  fixt  the  forks  into  the 

ground, 
And  over  these  they  placed  a  silver  wand 
And  over  that  a  golden  sparrow-hawk. 
Then    Yniol's    nephew,    after    trumpet 

blown, 
Spake   to  the  lady  with  him  and  pro- 

claim'd, 
"  Advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the  fair, 
For  I  these  two  years  past  have  won  it 

for  thee. 
The  prize  of  beauty."   Loudly  spake  the 

Prince, 
"  Forbear  :  there  is  a  worthier,"  and  the 

knight 
With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much 

disdain 
Turn'd,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all  his 

face 
Glow'd  like  the  heart  of  a  great  fire  at 

Yule, 
So  burnt  he  was  with  passion,  crying  out, 
"Do  battle  for  it  then,"  no  more  ;  and 

thrice 
They  clash'd  together,  and  thrice  they 

brake  their  spears. 
Then  each,  dishorsed  and  drawing,  lash'd 

at  each 
So  often  and  with  such  blows,  that  all 

the  crowd 
Wonder'd,  and  now  and  then  from  dis- 
tant walls 
There  came  a  clapping  as  of  phantom 

hands. 
So  twice  they  fought,  and  twice  they 

breathed,  and  still 
The  dewof  their  great  labor,  and  the  blood 


Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain' d 

their  force. 
But  cither's  force  was  match'd  till  Yniol's 

cry, 
'*  Remember  that  great  insult  done  the 

Queen," 
Increased  Geraint's,  who  heaved  his  blade 

aloft. 
And  crack'd  the  helmet  thro',  and  bit 

the  bone, 
And  fell'd  him,  and  set  foot  upon  his 

breast. 
And  said,  "  Thy  name  ? "  To  whom  the 

fallen  man 
Made  answer,  groaning,  ' '  Edym,  son  of 

Nudd! 
Ashamed  am  I  that  I  should  tell  it  thee. 
My  pride  is  broken  :  men  have  seen  my 

fall." 
"Then,  Edym,  son  of  Nudd,"  replied 

Geraint, 
"  These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  else 

thou  diest. 
First,  thou  thyself,  thy  lady,  and  thy 

dwarf, 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  being 

there. 
Crave  pardon  for  that  insult  done  the 

Queen, 
Andshaltabideherjudgmentonit ;  next. 
Thou  shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to  thy 

kin. 
These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  thou 

shalt  die." 
And  Edyrn  answer'd,  "  These  things  will 

I  do. 
For  I  have  never  yet  been  overthrown. 
And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my 

pride 
Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my  fall !  " 
Aiid  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur's  court, 
And  there  the  Queen  forgave  him  easily. 
And  being  young,  he  changed,  and  came 

to  loathe 
His  crime  of  traitor,  slowly  drew  himself 
Bright  from  his  old  dark  life,  and  fell  at 

last 
In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the  king. 

But  when  the  third  day  from  the  hunt- 
ing-mom 

Made  a  low  splendor  in  the  world,  and 
wings 

Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lay 

With  her  fair  head  in  the  dim-yellow 
light. 

Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the  birds, 


I 


GKRAINT  AND   ENID. 


145 


Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her  promise 

given 
No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince  Geraint — 
So  bent  he  seem'd  on  going  the  third  day, 
He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  promise 

given  — 
To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the  court, 
And  there  be  made  known  to  the  stately 

Queen, 
And  there  be  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 
At  this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her  dress, 
And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look'd  so 

mean. 
For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 
The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to  the 

dress 
She  look'd  on  ere  the  coming  of  Geraint. 
And  still  she  look'd,  and  still  the  terror 

grew 
Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadful  thing, 

a  court, 
All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk  : 
And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she  said : 

"  This  noble  prince  who  won  our  earl- 
dom back. 
So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire. 
Sweet  heaven,  how  much  I  shall  discredit 

him  ! 
Would  he  could  tarry  with  us  here  awhile ! 
But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince, 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us. 
Bent  as  he  seem'd  on  going  this  third  day. 
To  seek  a  second  favor  at  his  hands. 
Yet  if  he  could  but  tarry  a  day  or  two, 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  finger 

lame, 
Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit  him." 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a  dress 
All  branch'd  and  flower'd  with  gold,  a 

costly  gift 
Of  hergood  mother,  givenheronthe  night 
Before  her  birthday,  three  sad  years  ago, 
That  night  of  fire,  when  Edyrn  sack'd 

their  house, 
Andscatter'd  all  they  had  to  all  the  winds : 
For  while  the  mother  show'd  it,  and  the 

two 
Were  turning  and  admiring  it,  the  work 
To  both  appear'd  so  costly,  rose  a  cry 
That  Edym's  men  were  on  them,  and 

they  fled 
With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had  on, 
Wliich  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought 

them  bread  : 


And  Edym's  men  had  caught  them  in 

their  flight. 
And  placed  them  in  this  ruin  ;  and  she 

wish'd 
The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  ancient 

home  ; 
Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past. 
And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she  knew ; 
And  last  bethought  her  how  she  used  to 

watch, 
Near  that  old  home,  a  pool  of  golden  carp ; 
And  one  was  patch'd  and  blurr'd  and 

lustreless 
Among  his  burnish'd  brethren  of  the  pool ; 
And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 
And  the  gay  court,  and  fell  asleep  again  ; 
And  dreamt  herself  was  such  a  faded  form 
Among  her  burnish'd  sisters  of  the  pool ; 
But  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a  king  ; 
And  tho'  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  she  knew 
That  all  was  bright ;  that  all  about  were 

birds 
Of  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis- work  ; 
That  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that 

look'd 
Each  like  a  garnet  or  a  turkis  in  it ; 
And  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  court 

went 
In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state  ; 
And  children  of  the  king  in  cloth  of  gold 
Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol'd  down 

the  walks  ; 
And  while  she  thought  "they  will  not 

see  me,"  came 
A  stately  queen  whose  name  was  Guine- 
vere, 
And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of  gold 
Ran  to  her,  crying,  "  if  we  have  fish  at  all 
Let  them  be  gold  ;  and  charge  the  gar- 
deners now 
To  pick  the  faded  creature  from  the  pool. 
And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die." 
And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized  on 

her. 
And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her  heart 
All  overshadow'd  by  the  foolish  dream. 
And  lo  !  it  was  her  mother  grasping  her 
To  get  her  well  awake  ;  and  in  her  hand 
A  suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 
Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exultingly  : 

"See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the 

colors  look. 
How  fast  they  hold  like  colors  of  a  shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the 

wave. 


146 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


Why  not  ?  it  never  yet  was  worn,  I  trow  : 
Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  ye  know 
it." 

And  Enid  look'd,  but  all  confused  at 

first. 
Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish 

dream  : 
Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  rejoiced. 
And  answer'd,  ' '  Yea,  I  know  it ;  your 

good  giJft, 
So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night ; 
Your  own  good  gift!"   "Yea,  surely," 

said  the  dame, 
' '  And  gladly  given  again  thishappy  morn. 
Forwhen  the  jousts  wereended  yesterday. 
Went  Yniol  thio'  the  town,  and  every- 
where 
He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our  house 
All  scatter'd  thro'   the   houses  of  the 

town  ; 
And  gave  command  that  all  which  once 

was  ours. 
Should  now  be  ours  again  :  andyester-eve. 
While  you  were  talking  sweetly  with  your 

Prince 
Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  myhand. 
For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of  us. 
Because  we  have  our  earldom  back  again. 
And  yester-eve  I  would  not  tell  you  of  it. 
But  kept  it  for  a  sweet  surprise  at  mom. 
Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a  sweet  surprise  ? 
For  I  myself  unwillingly  have  wojti 
My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have  yours. 
And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 
Ah,  dear,  he  took  me  from  a  goodly  house, 
With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous  fare. 
And  page,  and  maid,  and   squire,  and 

seneschal, 
And  pastime  both  of  hawk  and  hound, 

and  all 
That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 
Yea,  and  he  brought  me  to  a  goodly  house  ; 
But  since  our  fortune  slipt  from  sun  to 

shade, 
And  all  thro'  that  young  traitor,  cruel 

need 
Constrain'dus,  butabettertimehascome ; 
So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better  fits 
Our  mended  fortunesand  a  Prince'sbride: 
For  tho'  ye  won  the  prize  of  fairest  fair. 
And  tho'  I  heard  him  call  you  fairest  fair. 
Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair, 
She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than  old. 
And  should  some  great  court-lady  say, 

the  Prince 
Hath  pick'd  a  ragged-robin  from  the  hedge, 


And  like  a  madman  brought  her  to  the 

court. 
Then  were  ye  shamed,  and,  worse,  might 

shame  the  Piince 
To  whom  we  are  beholden  ;  but  I  know, 
When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her 

best. 
That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho'  they 

sought 
Thro'  all  the  provinces  like  those  of  old 
That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has  her 

match." 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out  of 

breath  ; 
And  Enid  listen'd  brightening  as  she  lay ; 
Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star  of 

morn 
Parts  from  a  bank  of  snow,  and  by  and  by 
Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden  rose. 
And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed 

herself, 
Help'd  by  the  mother's  carpful  hand  and 

eye. 
Without  a  mirror,  in  the  gorgeous  gown  ; 
Who,  after,  tum'd  her  daughter  round, 

and  said. 
She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  so  fair ; 
And  call'd  her  like  that  maiden  in  the 

tale. 
Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamour  out 

of  flowers. 
And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cassivelaun, 
Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman  Ccesar 

first 
Invaded  Britain,  "but  we  beat  him  back. 
As  this  great  prince  invaded  us,  and  we. 
Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him 

with  joy. 
And  I  can  scarcelyride  with  you  to  court, 
For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and 

wild  ; 
But  Yniol  goes,  and  I  full  oft  shall  dream 
I  see  mj'  i^rincess  as  I  see  her  now, 
Clothed  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among  the 

gay-" 

But  while  the  women  thus  rejoiced, 

Geraint 
Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall, 

and  call'd 
For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately  queen, 
He  answer'd  ;  "  Earl,  entreat  her  by  my 

love, 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


147 


Albeit  I  give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded  silk." 
Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went ;  it 

fell, 
Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty  com  : 
For  Enid  all  abash'd  she  knew  not  why, 
Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good  mother's 

face, 
But  silently,  in  all  obedience. 
Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her, 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broider'd 

gift, 
And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit  again. 
And  so  descended.     Never  man  rejoiced 
More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus  at- 
tired ; 
And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at  her, 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil. 
Made  her  cheek  bum  and  either  eyelid 

fall, 
But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satisfied  ; 
Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother's  brow. 
Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and  sweet- 
ly said. 

"0  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or 

grieved 
At  your  new  son,  for  my  petition  to  her. 
When  late  I  leftCaerleon,  our  great  Queen, 
In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were  so 

sweet. 
Made  promise,   that  whatever  bride  I 

brought. 
Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun  in 

Heaven. 
Thereafter,  when  I  reach'd  this  ruin'd 

hold. 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  kind 

Queen, 
No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your 

Enid  burst 
Sunlike    from     cloud  —  and    likewise 

thought  perhaps, 
That  service  done  so  graciously  would  bind 
The  two  together  ;  for  I  wish  the  two 
To  love  each  other  :  how  should  Enid  find 
A  noblerfriend  ?    Another  thought  I  had  ; 
I  came  among  you  here  so  suddenly. 
That  tho'  her  gentle  presence  at  the  lists 
Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that  I 

was  loved, 
I  doubted  whether  filial  tenderness. 
Or  easy  nature,  did  not  let  itself 
Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her  weal  ; 
Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her  own 

self 


Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall ; 
And  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long 

for  court 
And  all  its  dangerous  glories :   and   I 

thought. 
That  could  I  someway  prove  such  force 

in  her 
Link'd  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at  a 

word 
(No  reason   given  her)  she   could  cast 

aside 
A  splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to  her, 
And  therefore  dearer  ;  or  if  not  so  new, 
Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the  power 
Of  intermitted  custom  ;  then  I  felt 
That  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and  flows, 
Fixt  on  her  faith.     Now,  therefore,  1  do 

rest, 
A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy. 
That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can  cross 
Between  us.     Grant  me  pardon  for  my 

thoughts : 
And  for  my  strange  petition  I  will  make 
Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day. 
When  your  fair   child  shall  wear  your 

costly  gift 
Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with,  on 

her  knees. 
Who  knows  ?  another  gift  of  the  high  God, 
Which,  maybe,  shall  have  leam'd  to  lisp 

you  thanks." 

He   spoke :   the  mother   smiled,  but 

half  in  tears. 
Then  brought  a  mantle  down  and  wrapt 

her  in  it. 
And  claspt  and  kiss'd  her,  and  they  rode 

away. 

Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere 

had  climb'd 
The  giant  tower,  from  whose  high  crest, 

they  say, 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  sea ; 
But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look'd  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale 

of  Usk, 
By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them 

come  ; 
And  then  descending  met  them  at  the 

gates, 
Embraced  herwith  all  welcome  as  a  friend, 
And  did  her  honor  as  the  Prince's  bride, 
And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like  tho 


148 


GERAJNT  AND   ENID. 


'  The  giant  tower  from  » hose  high  crest,  they  sajr, 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  sea." 


And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon  gay, 
For  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high 

saint, 
They  ]twain  were  wedded  with  all  cere- 
mony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year's  Whit- 
suntide. 
But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk, 
Eemembering  how  first  he  came  on  her, 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 

her  in  it. 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress. 
And  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 


And  now  this  morning  when  he  said 
to  her, 
"  Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress," 

she  found 
And  took  it,  and  array'd  herself  therein. 

0  purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble  for  ourselves. 
By  taking  true   for   false,   or  false   for 

true  ; 
Here,   thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this 

world 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and 

reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are  seen  ! 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


149 


So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issuing 

forth 
That  morning,  when  they  both  had  got 

to  horse, 
Perhaps  because  he  loved  herpassionately. 
And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round  Ms 

heart. 
Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break 

perforce 
Upon  a  head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said  : 
"  Not  at  my  side.    I  charge  you  ride  be- 
fore. 
Ever  a  good  way  on  before  ;  and  this 
I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  a  wife, 
"Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to  me, 
No,  not  a  word  ! "  and  Enid  was  aghast ; 
And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three 

paces  on, 
When  crying  out  "  Effeminate  as  I  am, 
I   will   not  fight  my  way  with  gilded 

arms. 
All  shall  be  iron  "  ;  he  loosed  a  mighty 

purse. 
Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl'd  it  toward  the 

squire. 
So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of  home 
Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flashing, 

strown 
With  gold  and  scatter'd  coinage,  and  the 

squire 
Chafing  his  shoulder :  then  he  cried  again, 
' '  To  the  wilds  !  "  and  Enid  leading  down 

the  tracks 
Thro'  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on, 

they  past 
The  marches,    and  by  bandit-haunted 

holds. 
Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places  of 

the  hern 
And  wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they 

rode  : 
Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but  slacken'  d 

soon  : 
A   stranger  meeting  them  had  surely 

thought 
They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  look'd  so 

pale. 
That  each  had  suffer' d  some  exceeding 

wrong. 
For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself 
"01  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon  her. 
To  compass  her  with  sweet  observances, 
To   dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her 

true  "  — 
And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in  his 

heart 
Abruptly,  as  a  man  upon  his  tongue 


May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters 

him. 
And   she   was   ever  praying   the   sweet 

heavens 
To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any 

wound. 
And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 
For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself, 
Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and  so 

cold ; 
Till  the  great  plover's  human  whistle 

amazed 
Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the  waste 

she  fear'd 
In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambuscade. 
Then  thought  again  "  if  there  be  such  in 

me, 
I  might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of  heaven, 
If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me  of  it." 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day 

was  gone, 
Then  Enid  was  aware  of  three  tall  knights 
On  horseback,  wholly  arm'd,  behind  a 

rock 
In  shadow,   waiting  for  them,    caitiffs 

all; 
And  heard  one   crying  to  his  fellow, 

"  Look, 
Here  comes  a  laggard  hanging  down  his 

head, 
Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a  beaten  hound ; 
Come,  we  will  slay  him  and  will  have  his 

horse 
And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  be  ours." 

Then  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart,  and 

said; 
"  I  will  go  back  a  little  to  my  lord. 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff  talk  ; 
For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me, 
Far  liever  by  his  dear  hand  had  I  die, 
Than  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss  or 

shame." 

Then  she  went  back  some  paces  of  re- 
turn. 

Met  his  full  frown  timidly  firm,  and 
said  : 

"  My  lord,  I  saw  three  bandits  by  the 
rock 

Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them 
boast 

That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess 
your  horse 

And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should  be 
theirs." 


150 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


He  made  a  wrathful  answer.     "Did  I 
wish 
Your  warning  or  your  silence  ?  one  com- 
mand 
I  laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me, 
And  thus  you  keep  it !    Well  then,  look 

—  for  now, 
Whether  you  wish  me  victory  or  defeat, 
Long  for  my  life,  or  hunger  for  my  death. 
Yourself  shall  see  my  vigor  is  not  lost." 

Then  Enid  waited  pale  and  sorrowful. 
And  down  upon  him  bare  the  bandit 

three. 
And  at  the  midmost  charging,  Prince 

Geraint 
Drave  the  long  spear  a  cubit  thro*  his 

breast 
And  out  beyond  ;  and  then  against  his 

brace 
Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had  broken 

on  him 
A  lance  that  splinter'd  like  an  icicle, 
Swung  from  his  brand  a  windy  buffet  out 
Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  and  stunn'd 

the  twain 
Or  slew  them,  and  dismountinglikea  man 
That  skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying 

him, 
Stript  from  the  three  dead  wolves  of 

woman  bom 
The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which  they 

wore. 
And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the 

suits 
Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  "  Drive  them  on 
Before  you  "  ;  and  she  drove  them  thro' 

the  waste. 

He  follow'd  nearer :  ruth  began  to  work 
Against  his  anger  in  him,  while  he  watch'd 
The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the  world. 
With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 
Driving  them  on  :  he  fain  had  spoken  to 

her. 
And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the 

wrath 
And  smoulder'd  wrong  that  burnt  him 

all  within  ; 
But  evermore  it  seem'd  an  easier  thing 
At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her 

dead. 
Than  to  cry  "Halt,"  and  to  her  own 

bright  face 
Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty  : 


And  thus  tongue-tied,  it  made  him  wroth 

the  more 
That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own  ear 

had  heard 
Call  herself  false  :  and  suffering  thus  he 

made 
Minutes  an  age  :  but  in  scarce  longer  time 
Than  at  Caerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 
Before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again, 
Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  behold 
In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a  deep  wood, 
Before  a  gloom  of  stubborn-shafted  oaks. 
Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly 

arm'd. 
Whereof  one  seem'd  far  larger  than  her 

lord. 
And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  "  Look,  a 

Erize  ! 
orses  and  three  goodly  suits  of 

arms. 
And  all  in  charge  of  whom?  agirl:  set  on." 
"  Nay  "  said  the  second,  "  yonder  comes 

a  knight." 
The  third,  "  A  craven  ;  how  he  hangs  his 

head." 
The  giant  answer'd  merrily,  "Yea,  but 

one  ? 
Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall  upon 

him." 

And  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart  and 

said, 
"  I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord. 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 
My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before, 
And  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 
I  needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good  ; 
How  should  I  dare  obey  him  to  his  harm  ? 
Needs  must  I  speak,  and  tho'  he  kill  me 

for  it, 
I  save  a  life  dearer  to  me  than  mine." 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said  to 

him 
With  timid  firmness,  "Have  1  leave  to 

speak  ? " 
He  said,   "Ye  take  it,  speaking,"  and 

she  spoke. 

"There  lurk  three  villains  yonder  in 

the  wood. 
And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm'd,  and 

one 
Is  larger-limb'd  than  you  are,  and  they 

say 
That  they  will  fall  upon  you  while  you 

pass." 


GEKAINT   AND   ENID. 


161 


To  which  he  flung  a  wrathful  answer 

back : 
"And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the 

wood, 
And  every  man  were  larger-limb'd  than  I, 
And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon  me, 
I  swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  much 
As  you  that  not  obey  me.     Stand  aside, 
And  if  I  fall,  cleave  to  the  better  man." 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  the  event, 
Not  dare  to  watch  the  combat,   only 

breathe 
Short  fits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a 

breath. 
And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down 

upon  him. 
Aim'd  at  the  helm,  his  lance  err'd  ;  but 

Geraint's, 
A  little  in  the  late  encounter  strain' d, 
Struck  thro'  the  bulky  bandit's  corselet 

home. 
And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his  enemy 

roU'd, 
And  there  lay  still ;  as  he  that  teUs  the 

tale. 
Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promontory, 
That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  slip 
From  the  long  shore-cliffs  windy  walls 

to  the  beach, 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling 

grew  ; 
So  lay  the  man  transfix  t.    His  craven  pair 
Of   comrades,   making  slowlier  at  the 

Prince, 
"When  now  they  saw  their  bulwark  fallen, 

stood  ; 
On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound  them 

more, 
Spurr'd  with  his  terrible  war-cry  ;  for  as 

one. 
That  listens  near  a  torrent  mountain- 
brook. 
All  th  ro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract  hears 
The  dmmming  thunder  of  the  huger  fall 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to  hear 
Hi.s  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by  it. 
And  foemen  scared,  like  that  false  pair 

who  tum'd 
Flj^ng,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 
Themselves  had  wrought  on  many  an 

innocent. 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting,  pick'd 
the  lance 
That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from 
those  dead  wolves 


Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each  from 

each. 
And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each  on 

each. 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  "  Drive  them  on 
Before  you,"  and  she  drove  them  thro' 

the  wood. 

He  folio w'd  nearer  still :  the  pain  she  had 
To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the  wood, 
Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  j  ingl  ing  arms, 
Together,  served  a  little  to  disedge 
The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  her  heart : 
And    they    themselves,    like    creatures 

gently  bom 
But  into  bad  hands  fall'n,  and  nowsolong 
By  bandits  gi-oom'd,  prick'd  their  light 

ears,  and  felt 
Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  govern- 
ment. 

So  thro'  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood  they 

past, 
And  issuing  under  open  heavens  beheld 
A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rock, 
And  close  beneath,  a  meadow  gemlike 

chased 
In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mowing 

in  it : 
And  down  a  rocky  pathway  from  the  place 
There  came  a  fair-hair' d  youth,  that  in 

his  hand 
Bare  victual  for  the  mowers  :  and  Geraint 
Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale  : 
Then,  moving  downward  to  the  meadow 

ground. 
He,  when  the  fair-hair'd  youth  came  by 

him,  said, 
"Friend,  let  her  eat ;  the  damsel  is  so 

faint." 
"Yea,  willingly,"   replied  the  youth; 

"  and  you. 
My  lord,  eat  also,  tho'  the  fare  is  coarse. 
And  only  meet  for  mowers  "  ;  then  set 

down 
His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  the  sward 
They  let  the  horses  graze,  and  ate  them- 
selves. 
And  Enid  took  a  little  delicately, 
Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her  lord's  pleasure  ;  but 

Geraint 
Ate  all  the  mowers'  victual  unawares. 
And  when  he  found  all  empty,  was  amazed ; 
And  "  Boy,"  said  he,  "  I  have  eaten  all, 

but  take 


152 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


A  horse  and  arms  for  guerdon  ;  choose 

the  best." 
He,  reddening  in  -extremity  of  delight, 
"  My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty-fold." 
"Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  cried  the 

Prince. 
' '  I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then, "  said  the  boy, 
"  Not  guerdon  ;  for  myself  can  easily, 
While  your  good  damsel  rests,  return, 

and  fetch 
Fresh  victual  lor  these  mowers  of  our 

Earl; 
For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is  his. 
And  I  myself  am  his  ;  and  I  will  tell  him 
How  great  a  man  you  are :  he  loves  to  know 
When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  territory  : 
And  he  will  have  you  to  his  palace  here. 
And  serve  you  costlier  than  with  mowers' 

fare." 

Then  said  Geraint,  "  I  wish  no  better 

fare  : 
I  never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 
Than  when  I  left  your  mowers  dinnerless. 
And  into  no  Earl's  palace  will  I  go. 
I  know,  God  knows,  too  much  of  palaces  ! 
And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to  me. 
But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the 

night. 
And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  return 
With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  us 

know." 


"Yea,  my  kind  lord,"  said  the 
youth,  and  went. 
Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  him- 
self a  knight. 
And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disappear'd. 
Leading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left 
alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought  his 
errant  eyes 

Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let 
them  glance 

At  Enid,  where  she  droopt  :  his  own 
false  doom. 

That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never  cross 

Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  he 
sigh'd ; 

Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  re- 
mark'd 

The  lusty  mowers  laboring  dinnerless. 

And  watch' d  the  sun  blaze  on  the  turn- 
ing scythe. 

And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the  heat. 

But  she,  remembering  her  old  ruin'd  hall. 


And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 
AboutherhoUow  turret,  pluck'dthe  grass 
There  growing  longest  by  the  meadow's 

edge, 
And  into  many  a  listless  annulet. 
Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage  ring. 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  return'd 
And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they 

went ; 
Where,  after  saying  to  her,  ' '  If  ye  will, 
Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,"  to 

which 
She  answer' d,  "Thanks,  my  lord"  ;  the 

two  remain'd 
Apart  by  all  the  chamber's  width,  and 

mute 
As  creatures  voiceless  thro'  the  fault  of 

birth, 
Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a  shield, 
Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor 

glance 
The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along  the 

street, 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echoing, 

buret 
Their  drowse  ;  and  either  started  while 

the  door, 
Push'd  from  without,  drave  backward  to 

the  wall, 
And  midmost  of  a  rout  of  roisterers. 
Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale. 
Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 
Enter'd,    the   wild   lord   of    the   place, 

Limours. 
He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness. 
Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  but  stealthily, 
In   the    mid-warmth   of    welcome   and 

graspt  hand. 
Found  Enid  with  the  comer  of  his  eye, 
And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 
Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and  goodly 

cheer 
To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sumptu- 
ously 
According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the  host 
Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his  friends. 
And  feast  with  these  inhonorof  theirearl ; 
"  And  care  not  for  the  cost ;  the  cost  is 


And  wine  and  food  were  brought,  and 
Earl  Limours 
Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and  told 
Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and  play'd 
upon  it. 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


163 


And  made  it  of  two  colors  ;  for  his  talk, 
When  wirte  and  free  companions  kindled 

him, 
Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like  agem 
Of  fifty  facets  ;  thus  he  moved  the  Prince 
To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  applause. 
Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry,  ask'd 

Limours, 
'  *  Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the  room, 

and  speak 
To  yourgood  damsel  there  who  sits  apart. 
And  seems  so  lonely  ? "   "  My  free  leave  " 

he  said  ; 
"  Get  her  to  speak  :  she  does  not  speak 

to  me." 
Then  rose  Limours  and  looking  at  his  feet, 
Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears 

may  fail, 
Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring  eyes, 
Bow'd  at  her  side  and  utter'd  whisper- 

ingly  : 

"  Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid  my  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid  the  loss  of  whom  has  tum'd  me 

wild  — 
What  chance  is  this  ?  how  is  it  I  see  you 

here  ? 
You  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my 

power. 
Yetfearmenot :  I  call  mine  own  self  wild, 
But  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilderness. 
I   thought,  but  that  your  father  came 

between. 
In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back  : 
Make  me  alittle  happier  :  let  me  know  it : 
Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a  life  half-lost  ? 
Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all  you 

are. 
And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I  see  it  with  joy — 
You  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him, 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or 

maid. 
To  serve  you — does  he  love  you  as  of  old  ? 
For,  call  it  lovers'  quarrels,  yet  I  know 
Tho'  men  may  bicker  with  the  things 

they  love, 
They  would  not  make  them  laughable 

in  all  eyes, 
Not  while  they  loved  them ;  and  your 

wretched  dress, 
A  wretched  inijult  on  you,  dumbly  speaks 
Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you  no 

more. 
Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now  : 


A  common  chance  —  right  well  I  know 

it  —  pall'd  — 
For  I  know  men  :  nor  will  ye  win  him 

back, 
For  the  man's  love  once  gone  never  returns. 
But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old  ; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of  old : 
Good,   speak   the  word :  my  followers 

ring  him  round  : 
He  sits  unarm' d  ;  I  hold  a  finger  up  ; 
They  understand  :  no ;  I  do  not  mean 

blood  : 
Nor  need  you  look  so  scared  at  what  I  say : 
My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a  moat. 
No  stronger  than  a  wall :  there  is  the  keep ; 
He  shall  not  cross  us  more ;  speak  but 

the  word  : 
Or  speak  it  not ;  but  then  by  Him  that 

made  me 
The  one  true  lover  which  you  ever  had, 
1  will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I  have. 
0  pardon  me  !  the  madness  of  that  hour, 
When  first  I  parted  from  you,  moves  me 

yet." 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own 

voice 
And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it. 
Made  his  eye  moist ;  but  Enid  fear'd  his 

eyes. 
Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from 

the  feast ; 
And  answer'd  with  such  craft  as  women 

use, 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously,  and 

said  : 

"  Earl,  if  youlovemeasinformer  years. 
And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with 

morn, 
And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  violence  ; 
Leave  me  to-night :  I  am  weary  to  the 

death." 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  bran- 
dish'd  plume 
Brushing   his    instep,   bow'd    the    all- 
amorous  Earl, 
And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a  loud 

good-night. 
He  movinghomeward babbled tohis  men. 
How  Enid  never  loved  a  man  but  him, 
Nor  cared  a  broken  egg-shell  for  her  lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince  Geraint, 
Debating  his  comhiaud  of  silence  given, 


154 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


And  that  she  now  perforce  must  violate  it, 
Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while 

she  held 
He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 
To  wake  him,  but  hung  o'er  him,  wholly 

pleased 
To  find  him  yet  unwounded  after  fight. 
And  hear  him  breathing  low  and  equally. 
Anon   she  rose,   ahd   stepping  lightly, 

heap'd 
The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place. 
All  to  be  there  against  a  sudden  need  ; 
Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  overtoil'd 
By  that  day's  grief  and  travel,  evermore 
Seem'd  catching  at  a  rootless  thorn,  and 

then 
Went  slipping  down  horrible  precipices, 
And  strongly  striking  out    her  limbs 

awoke  ; 
Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl  at 

the  door, 
With  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 
Sound  on  a  dreadful  trumpet,  summon- 
ing her  ; 
Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to  the 

light. 
As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o'er  the  dewy 

world. 
And  glimmer'd  on  his  armor  in  the  room. 
And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it, 
But  touch'd  it  unawares :  jangling,  the 

casque 
Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at  her. 
Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence 

given, 
She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours  had 

said. 
Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her 

not ; 
Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had  used ; 
But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet, 
Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and 

seem'd 
So  justified  by  that  necessity. 
That  tho'  he  thought  "was  it  for  him 

she  wept 
In   Devon  ? "  he   but  gave   a  wrathful 

groan. 
Saying  "your  sweet  faces  make  good 

fellows  fools 
And  traitors.    Call  the  host  and  bid  him 

bring 
Charger  and  palfrey."    So  she  glided  out 
Amongthe  heavy  breathings  of  the  house. 
And  like  a  household  Spirit  at  the  walls 
Beat,  till  she  woke  thj  ^sleepers,  and  re- 

turn'd  : 


Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho'  allun- 

ask'd, 
In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a  squire  ; 
Till  issuing  arm'd  he  found  the  host  and 

cried, 
"Thy  reckoning,  friend?"  and  ere  he 

learnt  it,  "Take 
Five  horses  and  their  armors  "  ;  and  the 

host, 
Suddenly  honest,  answer'd  in  amaze, 
"  My  lord,  I  scarce  have  spent  the  worth 

of  one  ! " 
"Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier, "  said  the 

Prince, 
And  then  to  Enid,  "Forward  !  andto-day 
I  charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially. 
What  thing  soever  ye  may  hear,  or  see. 
Or  fancy  (tho'  I  count  it  of  small  use 
To   charge  you)  that   ye  speak  not  but 

obey." 

And  Enid  answer'd,  "Yea,  my  lord,  I 

know 
Your  wish,  and  would  obey  ;  but  riding 

first, 
I  hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not  hear, 
I  see  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see  : 
Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that  seems 

hard  ; 
Almost  beyond  me  :  yet  I  would  obey. " 

"  Yea  so,"  said  he,  "  do  it :  be  not  too 

wise  ; 
Seeing  that  ye  are  wedded  to  a  man. 
Not   quite   mismated   with   a  yawning 

clown, 
But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head  and 

yours. 
With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however  far, 
And  ears  to  hear  you  even  in  his  dreams. " 

With  that  he  turn'd  and  look'd  as 

keenly  at  her 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil  ; 
And  that  within  her,  which  a  wanton 

fool, 
Or  hasty  judger  would  have  call'd  her 

guilt, 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall . 
And  Geraint  look'd  and  was  not  satisfied. 

Then  forward  by  a  way  which,  beaten 

broad. 
Led  from  the  territory  of  false  Limours 
To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl, 
Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals  call'd 

the  Bull, 


GERAINT   AND   ENID, 


155 


Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower  on. 
Once  she  look'd  back,  and  when  she  saw 

him  ride 
More  near  by  many  a  rood  than  yester- 

morn, 
It  wellnigh  made  her  cheerful ;  till  Ge- 

raint 
Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should  say 
"Ye  watch  me,"  sadden'd  all  her  heart 

again.  .    ■.: 

Hut  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a  dewy  blade, 
The  sound  of  many  a  heavily-galloping 

hoof 
Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round  she 

saw 
Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker  in  it. 
Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord's  behest. 
And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he  rode 
As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she  held 
Her  linger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 
At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy. 
Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his  word 
Was  in  a  manner  pleased,  and  turning, 

stood. 
And  in  the  moment  after,  wild  Limours, 
Borne  on  a  black  horse,  like  a  thunder- 
cloud 
Whose  skirts  are  loosen'd  by  the  breaking 

storm. 
Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he  rode. 
And  all  in  yjassion  uttering  a  dry  shriek, 
Dash'd  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with  him, 

and  bore 
Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm 

beyond 
The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn'd  or 

dead. 
And  overthrew  the  next  that  followM  him, 
And  blindly  rush'd  on  all  the  rout  behind. 
But  at  the  Hash  and  motion  of  the  man 
They  vanish'd  panic-stricken,  like  a  shoal 
Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 
Adown  the  crystal  dykes  at  Camelot 
Come  slip])ing  o'er  their  shadows  on  the 

sand. 
But  if  a  man  who  .stands  upon  the  brink 
But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  .sun, 
There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin 
Betwixt  the  cre.ssy  islets  white  in  flower, 
So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the  man, 
Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the  Earl, 
And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way  ; 
So  vanish  friend.ships  only  made  in  wine. 

Then   like  a  stormy  sunlight  smiled 
Geraint, 
Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that  fell 


Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wildly 

fly, 

Mixt  with  the  fliers.     "  Horse  and  man," 

he  said, 
"All  of  one  mii;d  and  all  right-honest 

friends  ! 
Not  a  hoof  left :  and  I  methinks  till  now 
Was  honest —  paid  with  horses  and  with 

arms  ; 
I  cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg  : 
And  so  what  say  ye,  shall  we  strip  him 

there 
Yourlover  ?  has  your  palfrey  heart  enough 
To  bear  his  armor  ?  shall  we  fast,  or  dine  ? 
No  ?  —  then  do  you,  being  right  honest, 

pray 
That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of  Earl 

Doorm, 
I  too  would  still  be  honest."     Thus  he 

said  : 
And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins, 
And  answering  not  one  word,  she  led  the 

way. 

But  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful  loss 
Falls  in  a  far  land  and  he  knows  it  not. 
But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the  loss 
So  pains  him  that   he  sickens  nigh  to 

death  ; 
Sofareditwith  Geraint,  whobeingprick'd 
In  combat  with  the  follower  of  Limours, 
Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly, 
And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle  wife 
What  ail'd  him,  hardly  knowing  it  him- 
self. 
Till  his  eye   darken'd  and  his   helmet 

wagg'd  ; 
And  at  a  sudden  swerving  of  the  road, 
Tho'  happily  down  on  a  bank  of  grass, 
The  Prince,  without  a  word,  from  his 
horse  fell. 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his  fall, 
Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all  pale 
Dismounting,  loosed  the   fastenings  of 

his  arms. 
Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue  eye 
Moisten,    till   she    had  lighted   on    his 

wound. 
And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 
Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blistering 

sun. 
And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain'd  her 

dear  lord's  life. 
Then  after  all  was  (lone  that  hand  could  do. 
She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way. 


156 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


And  many  past,  but  none  regarded  her, 
For  in  that  reahn  of  lawless  turbulence, 
A  woman  weephigfor  her  murder'd  mate 
Was  cared  as   much  for  as  a  summer 

shower : 
One  took  liim  for  a  victim  of  Earl  Dooi-m, 
Nordared  to  waste  a  p^rilouspity  on  him : 
Another  hurrying  past,  a  man-at-arms. 
Rode  on  a  mission  to  the  bandit  Earl ; 
Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a  coarse 

song. 
He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless  eyes. 
Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of  Doorm 
Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 
The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in  his 

fear  ; 
At  which  her  palfrey  whinnjring  lifted 

heel. 
And  scour'd  into  the  coppices  and  was 

lost. 
While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved 

like  a  man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge  Earl 

Doorm, 
Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  russet 

beard, 
Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey, 
Came  riding  with  a  hundred  lances  up  ; 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a  ship. 
Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  "  What,  is  he 

dead  ? " 
"  No,  no,  not  dead  !  "  she  answer'd  in  all 

haste. 
"Would  some  of  your  kind  people  take 

him  up, 
And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel  sun  : 
Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not  dead." 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm  ;  "Well,  if  he 

be  not  dead. 
Why  wail  ye  for  him  thus  ?  ye  seem  a 

child. 
And  be  he  dead,  I  count  you  for  a  fool  ; 
Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him  :  dead 

or  not, 
Ye  mar  a  comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 
Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely  —  some  of 

you. 
Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to  our 

hall: 
An  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our 

band  ; 
And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth  enough 
To  hide  him.    See  ye  take  the  charger  too, 
A  noble  one." 

He  spake,  and  past  away, 


But  left  two  brawny  spearmen,  who  ad- 
vanced. 
Each  growling  like  a  dog,  when  his  good 

bone 
Seems  to  be  pluck'd  at  by  the  village  boys 
Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he  fears 
To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot  upon  it. 
Gnawing  and  growling  :  so  the  ruffians 

growl'd. 
Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a  dead  man. 
Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morning's 

raid  ; 
Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a  litter-bier, 
Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays  out 
For  those  that  might  be  wounded  ;  laid 

him  on  it 
All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and  took 
And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of  Doorm, 
(His  gentle  charger  following  him  unled) 
And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he  lay 
Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall. 
And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to  join 
Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as  be- 
fore. 
And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the  dead 

man. 
And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own  souls, 

and  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  blest  her  :  she 

was  deaf 
To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from  one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her  lord. 
There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his  head. 
And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  calling 

to  him. 
And  at  the  last  he  wak  en'd  from  his  swoon, 
And  found  his  own  dear  bride  propping 

his  head. 
And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  calling 

to  him  ; 
And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his  face ; 
And  said  to  his  own  heart,  ' '  she  weeps 

for  me  "  : 
And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign'd  himself  as 

dead. 
That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  uttermost, 
And  say  to  his  own  heart  "she  weeps 

for  me." 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return'd 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder  to  the 

hall. 
His   lusty  spearmen  foUow'd  him  with 

noise  : 
Each  hurling  down  a  heap  of  things  that 

rang 


GERArNT    AND    ENID. 


157 


Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance  aside, 
And  doffd   his  helm  :   and   then  there 

flutter'd  in, 
Half-bold,    haJf-frighted,    with    dilated 

eyes, 
A  tribe  of  women,  dress'd  in  many  hues, 
And  mingled   with  the  spearmen  :  and 

Earl  Doorm 
Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  against 

the  board, 
And  eall'd  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed  his 

spears. 
And  men  brought  in  whole   hogs  and 

quarter  beeves. 
And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam  of 

flesh: 
And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat  down 

at  once. 
And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall, 
Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear  them 

feed  ; 
Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself. 
To  shun  the  wild  ways  ofthe  lawless  tribe. 
But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  he 

would. 
He  roll'd  hiseyes  about  the  hall,  and  found 
A  damsel  drooping  in  a  corner  of  it. 
Then  he  remember'd  her,  and  how  she 

wept ; 
And  out  of  her  there  came  a  power  upon 

him  ; 
And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  .said,  "  Eat  ! 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  pale. 
God's  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see  you 

weep. 
Eat !     Look  yourself.     Good   luck   had 

your  good  man. 
For  were  I  dead  who  is  it  would  weep  for  me  ? 
Sweet  lady,  never  since  I  firstdrew  breath, 
Have  I  beheld  a  lily  like  your.self. 
And  so  there   lived  some  color  in  your 

cheek. 
There  i.s  not  one  among  my  gentlewomen 
Were  fit  to  wear  your  .slipper  for  a  glove. 
Hut  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be  ruled, 
And  I  will  do  the  thing  I  have  not  done, 
For  you  shall  share  my  earldom  with  me, 

girl. 
And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one 

nest, 
And  I  will  fetch  you  forage  from  all  fields. 
For  I  conijiel  all  creatures  to  my  will." 

He  spoke  :  the  brawny  spearman  let 
his  cheek 
Bulge  with  the  unswallow'd  piece,  and 
turning  stared  ;  | 


While,  some,  whose  soiils  the  old  serpent 

long  had  drawn 
Down,  as  the  worm  di-aws  in  the  withered 

leaf 
And  makes  it  earth,  hiss'd  each  at  other's 

ear 
What  shall  not  be  recorded —women  they. 
Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gracious 

things. 
But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their 

best, 
Yea,  would  have  helped  him  to  it :  and 

all  at  once 
They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought  of 

them. 
But  answer' d  in  low  voice,  her  meek  head 

yet 
Drooping,  ' '  I  pray  you  of  your  courtesy. 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard  her 
speak. 
But  like  a  mighty  patron,  satisfied 
With  what  himself  had  doneso  graciously. 
Assumed  that  she  had  thanked  him,  add- 
ing, "yea. 
Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I  account  you  mine." 

She  answer'd  meekly,  "  How  should  I 
be  glad 
Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  anything. 
Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon  me  ? " 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon  her 

talk, 
As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And  sickly  nothing  ;  suddenly  seized  on 

her, 
And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the 

board. 
And  thnist  the  dish  before  her,  crying, 

"Eat." 

"No,  no,"  .said  Enid,  vext,  "I  will 

not  eat. 
Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise, 
And  eat  with  me.'      "Drink,  then,"  he 

answer'd.     "Here !" 
(And  fill'd  a  horn  with  wine  and  held  it 

to  her,) 
"  Lo  !  1,  myself,  when  flush'd  with  fight, 

or  hot, 
God's  cur.se,  with  anger  —  often  1  myself. 
Before  I  well  have  drunken,  scarce  can 

eat : 
Drink  therefore  and  the  wine  will  change 

your  will." 


158 


GERAINT   AND    ENID. 


"Not  so,"  she  cried,  "by  Heaven,  I 
will  not  drink. 
Till  my  de.ar  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do  it, 
And  drink  with  me ;  and  if  he  rise  no  more, 
I  will  not  look  at  wine  until  I  die." 

At  this  he  turn'd  all  red  and  paced  his 
hall. 
Now  gnaw'd  his  under,  now  his  upper  lip, 
And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at  la.s:  : 
"  Girl,  for  I  see  ye  scorn  my  courtesies, 
Take  warning :  yondernian  is  surely  dead ; 
And  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 
Not  eat  nor  drink  ?     And  wherefore  wail 

for  one. 
Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and 

scorn 
By  dressing  it  in  rags  ?     Amazed  am  I, 
Beholding  how  ye  butt  against  my  wish. 
That  I  forbear  you  thus  :  crossmenomore. 
At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor  gown, 
This   silken   rag,    this    beggar-woman's 

weed  : 
I  love  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully  : 
For  see  ye  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 
How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of  one. 
Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go  beauti- 
fully ! 
Rise  therefore  ;  robe   yourself  in  this  : 
obey." 

He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gentle- 
women 
Display'd  a  splendid  silk  of  foreign  loom. 
Where  like  a  shoaling  sea  the  lovely  blue 
Play'd  into  green,  and  thicker  down  the 

front 
With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops 

of  dew, 
When  all  night  long  a  cloud  clings  to  the 

hill. 
And  with  the  dawn  ascendinglets  the  day 
Strike  where  it  clung  :  so  thickly  shone 
the  gems. 

But  Enid  an.swer'd,  harder  to  be  moved 
Than  hardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of  power. 
With    life-long  injuries   burning    iina- 

venged, 
And  now  their  hour  has  come  ;  and  Enid 

said: 

"  In  this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord  found 

me  first. 
And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father's  hall : 
In  this  poor  gown  I  rode  with  him  to 

court. 


And  there  the  Queen  array'd  me  like  the 

sun  : 
In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe  mv- 

self. 
When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal  quest 
Of  honor,  where  no  honor  can  be  gain'd  : 
And  this  poor  gown  I  will  not  cast  aside 
Until  himself  arise  a  living  man, 
And  bid  me  cast  it.  I  have  griefs  enough : 
Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me  be  : 
I  never  loved,  can  never  love  but  him  : 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentleness, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  up  and  down 

his  hall. 
And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his 

teeth ; 
Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his 

mood 
Crying,  ' '  I  count  it  of  no  more  avail. 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with  you ; 
Take  my  salute,"  unknightly  with  flat 

hand. 
However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the  cheek. 

Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness, 
And  since  she  thought,    "he  had  not 

dared  to  do  it. 
Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was  dead," 
Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  bitter  cry. 
As  of  a  wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap. 
Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro'  the 

wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at  his 

sword, 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield,) 
Made  but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a  sweep 

of  it 
Shore  thro'  the  swarthv  neck,  and  like  a 

ball 
The  russet-bearded  head  roll'd  on  the  floor. 
So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  counted 

dead. 
And  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  hall 
Rose  when  they  saw  the  dead  man  rise, 

and  fled 
Yelling  as  from  a  spectre,  and  the  two 
Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said  : 

"Enid,  I  have  used  you  worse  than 
that  dead  man  ; 

Done  you  more  wrong  :  we  both  have  un- 
dergone 

That  trouble  which  has  left  me  thrice 
your  own  ; 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


159 


'  The  russet-bearded  >er\fl  rnll'd  on  the  floor. 
So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  counted  dead." 


Henceforward  I  will  rather  die  th  in  doubt. 
And  here  I  lay  thi.s  penanoe  on  myself, 
Not,  tho'  mine  own  ears  heard  you  yes- 

ter-morn  — 
You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I  heard 

you  say, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  were  no  true  wife  : 
1  swear  I  will  not  ask  your  meaning  in  it : 
I  do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 
And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than 

doubt." 

And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender  word. 
She  felt  so  blunt  and  stupid  at  the  heart : 
She  only  prayed  him,   "  Fly,  they  will 

return 
Andslayyou :  fly,  yourchargeris without, 
.My  palfrey  lo.st."     "Then,   Enid,  shall 

you  ride 
Behind  me."     "  Yea,"  said  Enid,    "let 

us  go." 
And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately 

horse. 
Who  now  no  more  a  vassal  to  the  thief. 
But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful  light, 
Neigh'd  with  all  gladness  as  they  came, 

and  stoop'd 
With  a  low  whinny  toward  the  pair  :  and 

she 
Kiss'd  the  white  star  upon  his  noble  front. 
Glad  also  ;  then  Gcraint  ujion  tiie  horse 


Mounted,  and  reach'd  a  hand,  and  on 

his  foot 
She  .set  her  own  and  climb'd  ;  he  turn'd 

his  face 
And  kiss'd  her  climbing,   and  she  cast 

her  arms 
About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  away. 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Paradise 
O'er  the  four  livers  the  first  roses  blew. 
Came  purer  jileasure  unto  mortal  kind 
Than  lived  thro'  her,  who  in  that  perilous 

hour 
Put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  husband's 

heart, 
And  felthim hersagain  :  shedid notwcep. 
But  o'er  her  meek  eyes  came  a  happy  mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden 

green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain  ; 
Yet  not  so  mi.sty  were  her  meek  blue  eye^ 
As  not  to  .see  before  them  on  the  path, 
Right  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit  hold, 
A  knight  of  Arthur's  court,  who  laid  his 

lance 
In  rest,  and  mad<>  as  if  to  fall  uiioii  him. 
Then,  fearingforhisliuttand  Jossofblood, 
She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had 

chanced, 
Shriek'd  to  the  stranger,   "Slay   not  a 

dead  man  1 " 


160 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


"  The   voice  of  Enid,"  said  the  knight ; 

but  she, 
Beholding  it  was  EdjTn,  son  of  Nudd, 
Was  moved  so  much  the  more,  and  shriek'd 

again, 
' '  0  cousin,  slay  not  liim  who  gave  you 

lile." 
And  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward  spake : 
' '  My  lord  Geraint,  I  greet  you  with  all 

love  ; 
1  took  you  for  a  bandit  knight  of  Doorm  ; 
And  fear  not,  linid,  I  should  fall  upon  him, 
Who  love  you,  Prince,  with  something 

of  the  love 
Wherewith   we   love  the    Heaven   that 

chastens  us. 
For  once,  when  I  was  up  so  high  in  pride 
That  I  was  halfway  down  the  slope  to 

Hell, 
By  overthrowing  me  you  threw  me  higher. 
Now,  made  a  knight  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round, 
And  since  I  knew  this  Earl,  when  I  my- 
self 
Was  half  a  bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 
I  come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to 

Doorm 
(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding  him 
Disband    himself,    and    scatter    all   his 

powers, 
Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  the 

King." 

"  He  hears  the  judgment  of  the  King 

of  King.s," 
Cried   the   wan    Prince;    "and   lo   the 

powers  of  Doorm 
Are  scaiter'd,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  field, 
Where,  huddled  here  and  there  on  mound 

and  knoll. 
Were  men  and  women  staring  and  aghast. 
While  some  yet  fled  ;  and  then  he  plain- 

lier  told 
How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within  his 

hall. 
But   when  the    knight   besought   him, 

' '  Follow  me. 
Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King's 

own  ear 
Speak  what  has  chanced  ;  ye  surely  have 

endured 
Strange  chances  here  alone  "  ;  that  other 

flush'd. 
And  hung  his  head,  and  halted  in  reply. 
Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless 

King, 
And  after  madness  acted  question  asK  d  : 


Till  Edyrn  crying,  "  If  ye  will  not  go 
To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to  you," 
"Enough,"  he  said,  "  1  follow, "and  they 

went. 
But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears. 
One  from  the  bandit  scatter'd  in  the  fiald. 
And  one  from  Edyrn.     Every  now  and 

then, 
When  Edyrn  rein'd  his  charger  ather  side, 
She  shrank  a  little.     In  a  hollow  land. 
From  which  old  fires  have  broken,  men 

may  fear 
Fresh  fire  and  ruin.    He,  perceiving,  said  : 

"Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that  most 

had  cause 
To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  I  am  changed. 
Yourself  were  first  the  blameless  cause  to 

make 
My  nature's  prideful  sparkle  in  the  blood 
Break  into  fuiious  flame  ;  being  repulsed 
By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I  schemed  and 

wrought 
Until  I  overturn'd  him  ;  then  set  up 
(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my  heart) 
My  haughty  jou.sts,  andtook  a  paramour; 
Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest  fair. 
And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism. 
So  wax'd  in  pride,  that  1  believed  myself 
Unconquerable,  for  1  was  wellnigh  mad  : 
And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in  these 

jousts, 
I  should  have  slain  your  father,  seized 

yourself. 
I  lived  in  hope  that  sometime  you  would 

come 
To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best 

you  loved ; 
And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your  meek 

blue  eyes, 
Thetruest  eyes  that  ever  answer' d  heaven. 
Behold  me  overturn  and  ti-ample  on  him. 
Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or  pray'd 

to  me, 
I  should  not  less  have  kill'd  him.     And 

you  came,  — 
But  once  you  came,  — and  with  your  own 

true  eyes 
Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as  one 
Speaks  of  a  service  done  him)  overthrow 
My  proud  self,  and  my  purpose  three 

years  old. 
And  sethisfoot  uponme,  and  giveme  life. 
There  was  I  broken  down  ;  there  was  I 

saved  : 
Tho'  thence  I  rode  all-shamed,  hating  the 

Ufe 


GERAINT  AND  ENIB. 


161 


He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 
And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laid  upon 

me 
Was  but  to  rest  awhile  within  her  court ; 
Where  first  as  sullen  as  a  beast  new-caged, 
And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a  wolf, 
Because  1  knew  my  deeds  were  known,  I 

found, 
Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 
Such  tine  reserve  and  noble  reticence, 
Mannersso  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a  grace 
Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I  began 
To  glance  behind  me  at  my  former  life. 
And  find  that  it  had  been  the  wolf  sindeed  : 
And  oft  I  talk'd  with  Dubric,  the  high 

saint. 
Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory. 
Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentleness, 
Which,  when  it  weds  with  manhood, 

makes  a  man. 
And  you  were  often  there  about  the  Queen, 
But  saw  me  not,  or  mark'd  not  if  yo.i  saw  ; 
Nor  did  I  care  or  dare  to  speak  with  you. 
But  kept  myself  aloof  till  I  was  changed  ; 
And  fear  not,  cousin  ;    1  am   changed 

indeed." 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed. 
Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend  or  foe. 
There  most  in  those  who  most  have  done 

them  ill. 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  camp  the 

King  himself 
Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  beholding 

her 
Tho'  pale,  yethappy,  ask'dhernotaword, 
But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he  held 
In  converse  for  a  little,  and  return'd, 
And,  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her   from 

horse. 
And  kiss'd  her  with  all  pureness,  brother- 
like. 
And  show'd  an  empty  tent  allotted  her. 
And  glancing  for  a  minute,  till  he  saw  her 
Pass  into  it,  turn'd  to  the  Prince,  and  said : 

"  Prince,  when  of  late  ye  pray'd  me 

for  my  leave 
To  move  to  your  own  land,  and  there 

defend 
Your  marches,  I  was  prick'd  with  some 

reproof. 
As  one  that  let  foul  wrong  stagnate  and  be, 
By  having  look'd  too  much  thro'  alien  eyes. 
And  wrought  too   long  with   delegated 

hands, 


Not   used   mine  own  :  but  now  behold 

me  come 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  my 

rea  m, 
With  Edyrn  and  with  others  :  have  ye 

look'd 
At   Edyrn  ?    have   ye   seen   how  nobly 

changed  ? 
This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonderful. 
His  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is 

changed. 
The  world  will  not  believe  a  man  repents  : 
And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly 

right. 
Full  seldom  does  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  tlie  vicious 

quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him. 
And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 
As  1  will  weed  this  land  before  1  go. 
I,  therefore,  madehimofourTableKound, 
Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  everyway 
One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous, 
Sanest  and  most  obedient  :  and  indeed 
This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon  himself 
After  a  life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 
A  thousand-fold  more  great  and  wonderful 
Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking  his 

life, 
My  subject  with  my  subjects  under  him. 
Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on  a 

realm 
Of  robbers,  tho'  he  slew  them  one  by  one. 
And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to  the 

death." 

So   spake  the  King ;  low  bow'd  the 

Prince,  and  felt 
His  work  was  neither  great  nor  won- 
derful. 
And  past  to  Enid's  tent ;    and  thither 

came 
The  King's  own  leech  to  look  into  his 

hurt ; 
And  Enid  tended  on  him  there  ;   and 

there 
Her  constant  motion  round  him,  and  the 

breath 
Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over  him, 
Fill'd  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  blood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper  love. 
As   the   south-west   that  blowing  Bala 

lake 
Fills  all  the  sacred  Dfte.     So  past  the 

day.s. 


162 


MERLIN   AND    VIVIEN. 


But  while  Geraiut  lay  healing  of  his 
hurt, 

The  blameless  King  went  forth  and  cast 
his  eyes 

On  each  of  all  whom  Uther  left  in  charge 

Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the 
King: 

He  look'd  and  found  them  wanting  ;  and 
as  now 

Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the  Berk- 
shire hills 

To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  hereto- 
fore, 

He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 

Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink'd  at 
wrong. 

And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a  stronger  race 

With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a  thou- 
sand men 

To  till  th.' wastes,  and  moving  everj'where 

Clear'd  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the 
law, 

And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and  cleansed 
the  land. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again, 
they  past 
With  Arthur  to  Caer  eon  u]  on  Usk. 
There  the  great  Queen  ome  more  em- 
braced her  f.iend. 
And  clothsd  her  in  apparel  like  the  day. 
And  tho'  Geraint  could  never  take  again 
That  comfort  from  their  converse  which 

he  took 
Before  the  Queen's  fair  name  was  breathed 

upon. 
He  rested  well  content  that  all  was  well. 
Thence aftertarryingforaspace  they  rode. 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to  the 

shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own  land. 
And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the  King 
So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 
Applauded,  and  the  spiteful  whisperdied : 
And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase, 
And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament. 
They  call'd  him  the  great  Prince  and  man 

of  men. 
But  Enid,  whom  her  ladies  loved  to  call 
Enid  the  Fair,  a  grateful  people  named 
Enid  the  Good  ;  and  in  their  halls  arose 
The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and  Geraints 
Of  times  to  be ;  nor  didhe  doubt  her  more 
But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown'd 
A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea 
In  battle,  fighting  for  theblameless  King. 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 

A  STORM   was  coming,  but  the  winds 

were  still, 
And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 
Before  an  oak,  so  hollow  huge  and  old 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruin'd  niasonwork, 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur's 

court  : 
She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard  ir 

thought 
Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name 

was  named. 
For  once,  when  Arthurwalking  all  alone, 
Vext  at  a  rumor  rife  about  the  Queen, 
Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted  fair. 
Would  fain  have  wroughtupon  his  cloudy 

mood 
With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal,  shaken 

voice. 
And  flutter'd  adoration,  and  at  last 
With  dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who  prized 

him  more 
Than  who  should    prize   him  most  ;  at 

which  the  King 
Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone 

by: 
But  one  had  watch' d,  and  had  not  held 

his  peace  : 
It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 
That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blame- 
less King. 
And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 
Him,  the  most  famous  man  of  all  those 

times, 
Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all  their 

arts, 
Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  sliips, 

and  halls. 
Was   also   Bard,  and  knew  the   starry 

heavens ; 
The  people  call'd  him  Wizard  ;   whom 

at  first 
She  play'd  about  with  slight  and  spright- 
ly talk, 
And  vivid  smiles,  and  faintly-venom'd 

points 
Of  slander,  glancing  here   and  grazing 

there  ; 
And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods,  the 

Seer 
Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and 

play, 
Ev'n  when  they  seem'd  unlovable,  and 

laugh 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


163 


tis  those  that  watch  a  kitten  ;  thus  he 

grew 
rolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain' J,  and 

slie, 
Perceivingthatshe  wasbuthalf  disdain'd, 
Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver  tits, 
i'urn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when  they 

met 
iigh  fuily,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 
^Vith  such  a  fixt  devotion,  that  the  old 

man, 
riio'  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at 

times 
Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for  love, 
A.ud  half  believe  her  true  :  for  thus  at 

times 
He  waver'd  ;  but  that  other  clung  to  him, 
b'ixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons  went. 
rhen  full  upon  him  a  great  melancholy  ; 
A^nd  leaving  Arthur's  court  he  gain'd  the 

beach  ; 
rhere  found  a  little  boat,  and  stept  into 

it  ; 
And  Vivien  foUow'd,  but  he  mark'd  her 

not. 
She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail ;  the 

boat 
Drave  with  a  sudden  wind  across  the 

deeps. 
And  touching  Breton  sands,  they  disem- 

bark'd. 
And  then  she  follow'd  Merlin  all  the  way, 
Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 
For  Mfrlin  once  had  told  her  of  a  charm, 
rhe  which  if  any  wrought  on  any  one 
With  woven  pacps  and  with  waving  arms, 
rhe  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seeni'd  to  lie 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower. 
From  which  was  no  escajie  forevennore  ; 
And  none  could  find  that  man  for  ever- 
more, 
Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought 

the  charm 
Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 
And  lost  to  life  and  lase  and  name  and 

fame. 
And  Vivien  ever  sought  towork  the  charm 
Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the  Time, 
As  fancying  that  her  glory  would  be  great 
According  to  his  greatness  whom   she 

quench'd. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  and  kiss'd 
his  feet. 
As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 
A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair ;  a  robe 
Of  samite  without  price,  that  moreexpre-st 


Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome 

limbs. 
In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of  March : 
And    while    she    kiss'd    them,    crying, 

"  Trample  me. 
Dear  feet,  that  1  have  follow'd  thro'  the 

world. 
And  1  will  pay  you  worship  ;  tread  nic 

down 
And  1  will  kiss  you  for  it "  ;  he  was  mute : 
So  dark  a  forethought  roU'd  about  his 

brain. 
As  on  a  dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 
The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long 

sea-hall 
In  silence  :  wherefore,  when  she  lifted  up 
A  face  of  sad  aj'peal,  and  sjiake  and  s^aid, 
"  0  Merlin,  do  ye  love  me  ? "  and  again, 
"0  Merlin,  do  ye  love  me?"  and  once 

more, 
"  Great  Master,  do  j-e  love  me  ?"  he  was 

mute. 
And  li.ssome  Vivien,  holding  by  his  heel. 
Writhed  toward  him,  slided  up  his  knee 

and  sat. 
Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow  feet 
Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his  neck. 
Clung  like  a  snake  ;  and  letting  her  left 

hand 
Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder,  as  a  leaf. 
Made  with  her  right  a  comb  of  pearl  to 

part 
The  listsof  such  a  beard  as  youth  gone  out 
Had  left  in  ashes :  then  he  spoke  and  said. 
Not  looking  at  her,  "  who  are  wise  in  love 
Love  most,  say  least,"  and  Vivien  an- 

swer'd  quick, 
"  I  saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
In  Arthur's  anas  hall  at  Camelot : 
But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue  —  0  stupid 

child  ! 
Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it ;  let  me  think 
Silence  is  wisdom  :  1  am  silent  then 
And  ask  no  kiss  "  ;  then  adding  all  at 

once, 
"And  lo,  I  clothe  myself  with  wisdom," 

drew 
The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard 
Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  knee. 
And  call'd  herself  a  gilded  summer  fly 
Caught  in  a  great  old  tyrant  sjiider's  web, 
"Who  meant  to  oat  her  up  in  that  wild  wood 
Without   one   word.     So  Vivien    call'd 

herself. 
But  rather  scem'd  a  lovely  baleful  star 
Veil'd  in  gray  vapor  ;  till  he  sadly  smiled  : 


164 


MERLIN   AKD   VIVIEN. 


"  Drew 
The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard 
Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  knee." 


^ "  To  whatrequest  for  what  stranoje  boon," 

he  said, 
"  Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and  fool- 
eries, 

0  Vivien,  the  preamble  ?  yet  my  thanks, 
For  these  have   broken  up   my  melan- 
choly." 

And  Vivien  an.swer'd  smiling  saxicily, 
"What,   0  my  Master,  have  ye  found 
your  voice  ? 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.     Thanks  at 

last  ! 
But  yesterday  you  never  open'd  lip. 
Except  indeed  to  drink  :  no  cup  had  we  : 
In  mine  own  lady  palms  TcuU'd  the  spring 


That  gather'd  trickling  dropwise  from 

the  cleft. 
And  made  a  pretty  cup  of  both  my  hands 
And   offer'd   you  it  kneeUng  :  then  ye 

drank 
And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave   me  oiii» 

poor  word  ; 
0  no  more   thanks   than  might  a  goat 

have  given 
"With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a 

beard. 
And  when  we  halted  at  that  other  well. 
And  I  was  faint  to  swooning,  and   ye 

lay 
Foot-gilt  with  all   the  blossom-dust  of 

those 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


MB 


Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did  you 

know 
That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  befor^  her 

own? 
And  yet  no  thanks  :  and  all  thro'  this 

wild  wood 
And  all  this  morning  when  I    fondled 

you  : 
Boon,  yes,  there  was  a  boon,  one  not  so 

strange  — 
How  had  I  wrong'd  you  ?  surely  you  are 

wise, 
But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise  than  kind. " 

And  Merlin  lock'd   his  hand  in  hers 

and  said  ; 
"0  did  you  never  lie  upon  the  shore, 
And  watch  the  curl'd  white  of  the  coming 

wave 
Glass'd   in  the   slippery  sand  before   it 

breaks  ? 
Ev'n  such  a  wave,  but  not  so  pleasurable. 
Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful  mood. 
Had  I  for  three  days  seen,  ready  to  fall. 
And  then  1  rose  and  lied  from  Arthur's 

court 
To  break  the  mood.     You  follow'd  me 

unask'd  ; 
And  when  Ilook'd,  and'saw  you  following 

still. 
My  mind  involved  youreelf  the  nearest 

thing 
In  that  mind-mist :  for  shall  I  tell  you 

truth  ? 
Vou  seem'd  that  wave  about  to  break 

upon  me 
And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the 

world, 
My  use  and  name  and  fame.     Your  par- 
don, child. 
Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten'd  all 

again. 
And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I  owe  you 

thrice, 
Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion, 

next 
Forthanksit.seemstill  nowneglected,  last 
For  the.se  your  dainty  gambols  :  where- 
fore ask  ; 
And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not  so 

strange." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  mourn- 
fully ; 
"  0  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking  it, 
Nor  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  are 
strangtt, 


Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood  of 

yours. 
I  ever  fear'd  ye  were  not  wholly  mine  ; 
And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  ya  did  me 

wrong. 
The  people  call  you  prophet :  let  it  be  : 
But  not  of  those  that  can  expound  them- 
selves. 
Take  Vivien  for  expounder  :  she  will  call 
That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom  of 

yours 
No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrustful  mood 
That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than 

yourself. 
Whenever  1  have  ask'd  this  very  boon, 
Now  ask'd  again  :  for  see  you  not,  dear 

love, 
That  such  a  mood  as  that,  which  lately 

gloom 'd 
Your  fancy  when  you  saw  me  following 

you. 
Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  are  not 

mine, 
Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  to  prove 

you  mine, 
And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn 

this  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands,    . 
As  proof  of  trust.  0  Merlin,  teach  it  me. 
The  charm  so  taught  will  charm  us  both 

to  rest. 
For,  grant  me  some  slight  power  upon 

your  fate, 
I,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy  trust, 
Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing 

you  mine. 
And  therefore  be  as  great  as  you  are  named, 
Not  muffled  round  with  selfi.sh  reticence. 
How  haid  you  look  and  how  denyingly  ! 
0,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 
That  I  .should  prove  it  on  you  unawares, 
To  make  you  lose  your  use  and  name  and 

fame, 
That  makes  me  most  indignant ;  then 

our  bond 
Had  best  be  loosed  for  ever :  but  think 

or  not, 
By  Heaven  that  hears  I  tell  you  the  clean 

truth, 
As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white  as 

milk  : 
0  Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 
If  these  unwitty  wandering  wits  of  mine, 
Ev'n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  of  a  dream, 
Have  tript  on  such  conjectural  treachery — 
May  this  hard  e^rth  cleave  to  the  Nadix 

hell 


166 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip 

me  fiat, 
If"  I  be  sucli  a  traitress.     Yield  my  boon. 
Till  which  I  scarce  can  yield  you  all  I  am ; 
And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish, 
The  great  proof  of  your  love  :  because  I 

think. 
However  wise,  ye  hardly  know  me  yet." 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from  hers 

and  said, 
"  1  never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 
Too  curious  Vivien,  tho'  you  talk  of  trust. 
Than  when  1  told  you  first  of  such  a  charm . 
Yea,  if  ye  talk  of  trust  I  tell  you  this, 
Too  much  1  trusted,  when  1  told  you  that, 
And  stirr'd  this  vice  in  you  which  ruin'd 

man 
Thro'  woman  the  first  hour  ;  for  howsoe'er 
In  children  a  great  curiousness  lie  well, 
Who  have  to  lefvrn  themselves  and  all  the 

world. 
In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I  find 
Your  face  is  practised,  when  1  spell  the 

lines, 
I  call  it,  —  well,  I  will  not  call  it  vice  : 
But  since  you  name  yourself  the  summer 

fly, 

I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the  gnat. 
That  settles,    beaten  back,   and  beaten 

back 
Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weariness  : 
But  since  I  will  not  yield  to  give  you  power 
Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame. 
Why  will  you  never  ask  some  other  boon  ? 
Yea,  by  God's  rood,  I  trusted  you  too 

much." 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-hearted 

maid 
That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile, 
Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with  tears. 
"Nay,  master,  be  not  wrathful  with  your 

maid  ; 
Caress  her  :  let  her  feel  herself  forgiven 
Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another  boon. 
I  think  you  hardly  know  the  tender  rhjmie 
Of  '  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 
I  heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it 

once. 
And  it  shall  answer  for  me.     Listen  to  it. 

'  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be 

ours, 
Faith   and  unfaith  can    ne'er  be  equal 

powers : 
Unfeith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 


'  It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

'  The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

'It  is  not  worth  the  keeping :  let  it  go  : 
But  shall  it?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all. ' 

0  master,  do  ye  love  my  tender  rhyme  ?" 

And  Merlin  look'd  and  half  believed 

her  true. 
So  tender  was  her  voice,  so  f^iir  her  face. 
So  sweetly  gleam'd  her  eyes  behind  her 

tears 
Like   sunlight  on    the   plain   behind   a 

shower  : 
And  yet  he  answer'd  half  indignantly. 

' '  Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I 

heard 
By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where  we 

sit : 
For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve  of  us. 
To  chase  a  creature  that  was  current  tlien 
In  these  wild  woods,  the  hart  with  golden 

horns. 
It  was  the  time  when  first  the  question  rose 
About  the  founding  of  a  Table  Kound, 
That  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and  men 
And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  all  the 

world. 
And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 
And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  youngest 

of  us. 
We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he 

flash'd, 
And  into  such  a  song,  such  fire  for  fame, 
Suchtnimpet-blowingsinit,  comingdown 
To  such  a  stem  and  iron-clashing  close. 
That  when  he  stopt  we  long'd  to  lunl 

together. 
And  should  have  done  it ;  but  the  beau- 
teous beast 
Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our  feet. 
And  like  a  silver  shadow  slipt  away 
Thro"  the  dim  land  ;  and  all  day  long  we 

rode 
Thro'  the   dim   land  against  a   rushing 

w-ind. 
That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our  ears. 
And  cha.sed  the  flashes  of  his  goklenhorns 
Until  they  vanish'd  by  the  fairy  well 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


il67 


That  laughs  at  iron — as  our  warriors  did — 
Where  children  cast  their  pins  and  nails, 

and  cry, 
'  Laugh,  little  well,'  but  touch  it  with  a 

sword, 
It  buzzes  wildly  round  the  point ;  and 

there 
We  lost  him  :  such  a  noble  song  was  that. 
But,  Vivien,  when  you  sangnie  that  sweet 

rhyme, 
I  felt  as  tho'  you  knew  this  cursed  charm, 
Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I  lay 
And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name  and 

fame." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  mourn- 

fully  ; 
*'  0  mine  have  ebb'd  away  for  evermore, 
And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this  wild 

wood. 
Because  1  saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 
Lo  now,  wliat  hearts  have  men  !   they 

never  mount 
As  high  a>  woman  in  her  selfless  mood. 
And  touching  fame,  howe'er  ye  scom 

my  song, 
Take  one  verse  more  —  the  laidy  speaks 

it  —  this  : 

'  My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is 

closelier  mine, 
For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that  fame 

were  thine, 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that 

shame  were  mine. 
So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

"  Says  she  not  well  ?  and  there  is  more 

—  this  rhyme 
Islike  the  fair  j>ear' -necklace  of  the  Queen, 
That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls  were 

spilt ; 
Some  lost,  some  stolen ,  some  as  relics  kept. 
But  nevennore  the  same  two  sister  jjearls 
Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss  each 

other 
On  her  white  neck  —  so  is  it  with  this 

rhyme  : 
It  lives  dispereedly  in  many  hands. 
And  every  minstrel  .sings  it  differently  ; 
Yet  is  there  one  true  line,  the  pearl  of 

pearls  ; 
'  Man  d  reams  of  Fame  while  woman  wakes 

to  love.' 
True  :  Love,  tho'  Ix)ve  were  of  the  gross- 
est, carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 


And  uses,  careless  of  the  rest ;  but  Fame, 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  nothing 

to  us  ; 
And  what  is  Fame  in  life  buthalf-disfame, 
And  counterchanged  with  darkness  ?  you 

yourself 
Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's 

son, 
And  since  you  seem  the  Master  of  all 

Art, 
They  fain  would  make  you  Master  of  all 

Vice." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers  and 

said, 
"  I  once  was  looking  for  a  magic  weed, 
And  found  a  fair  young  squire  who  sat 

alone, 
Had  carved  himself  a  knightly  shield  of 

wood, 
And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied  arms, 
Azure,  an  Eagle  rising  or,  the  Sun 
In  dexter  chief ;  the  scroll '  I  followfame.' 
And  speaking  not,  but  leanhig  over  him, 
1  took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the  bird. 
And  made  a  Gardener  putting  in  a  graff, 
With  this  for  motto,  '  Rather  use  than 

fame.' 
You  should  have  seen  him  blush  ;  but 

afterwards 
He  made  a  stalwart  knight.     0  Vivien, 
For  you,  methinks  you  think  you  love 

me  well  ; 
For  me,  I  love  you  somewhat ;  rest :  and 

Love 
Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure  in 

himself. 
Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a  boon, 
Too  [)rurient  for  a  proof  against  the  grain 
Of  him  you  say  you  love  :  but  Fame  with 

men, 
Beingbnt  ampler  means  to  serve  mankind. 
Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in  her- 
self. 
But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love. 
That  dwaifs  the  petty  love  of  one  to  one. 
Use  gave  me  Fame  at  firet,  and  Fame 

again 
Increasing  gave  me  use.     Lo,  there  my 

boon  ! 
What  other  ?  for  men  sought  to  prove 

me  vile, 
Because  I  wish'd  to  give  them  greater 

minds  : 
And  then  did  En%'y  call  nie  Devil's  son  : 
The  .sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help  her- 
self 


168 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


By  striking  at  her  better,  miss'd,  and 
brought 

Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her 
own  heart. 

Sweet  were  the  days  when  I  was  all  un- 
known. 

But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the 

StOlTO 

Broke  on  the  mountain  and  I  cared  not 

for  it. 
Right  well  know  I  that  Fame  is  half- 

disfame. 
Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.     That 

other  fame, 
To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children, 

vague. 
The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the  grave, 
I  cared  not  for  it  :  a  single  misty  star. 
Which  is  the  second  in  a  line  of  stars 
That  seem  a  sword  beneath  a  belt  of  three, 
I  never  gazed  upon  it  but  I  dreamt 
Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that  star 
To  make  fame  nothing.    Wherefore,  if  I 

fear. 
Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro'  this 

charm. 
That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  having 

power, 
However  well  you  think  you  love  me  now 
(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 
Have  tum'd  to  tyrants  when  they  came 

to  power) 
I  rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than  fame  ; 
If  you  —  and  not  so  much  from  wicked- 
ness. 
As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a  mood 
Of  ovei'strain'd  affection,  it  may  be. 
To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  or  else 
A  sudden  spurt  of  woman's  jealousy,  — 
Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  you  say 

you  love." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  as  in 

\vrath. 
"  Have  I  not  sworn  ?    I  am  not  trusted. 

Good! 
Well,  hide  it,  hide  it  ;  I  shall  find  it  out ; 
And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 
A  woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger  born 
Of  your  misfaith  ;  and  your  fine  epithet 
Is  accurate  too,  for  this  full  love  of  mine 
Without  the  full  heart  back  may  merit 

well 
Your  term  of  overstrain'd.    So  used  as  I, 
My  daily  wonder  is,  I  love  at  all. 
And  as  to  woman's  jealousy,  0  why  not  ? 


0  to  what  end,  except  a  jealous  one. 
And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I  love. 
Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  yourself  i 

1  well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
Ye  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and  there, 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower 
From  which  is  no  escape  for  evermore." 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  an- 
swer'd her. 

"  Full  many  a  love  in  loving  youth  was 
mine, 

I  needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them 
mine 

But  youth  and  love  ;  and  that  full  heart 
of  yours 

Whereof  you  prattle,  may  now  assure  you 
mine ; 

Soliveuncharm'd.  For  those  who  wrought 
it  first. 

The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that 
waved. 

The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ankle- 
bones 

Who  paced  it,  ages  back :  but  will  j'e 
hear 

The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your  rhyme  ? 

"  There  lived  a  king  in  the  most  East- 
ern East, 

Less  old  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my  blood 

Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  springs  to  be. 

A  tawn}'  pirate  anchor'd  in  his  port. 

Whose  bark  had  plunder'd  twenty  name- 
less isles  ; 

And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of  dawn, 

He  saw  two  cities  in  a  thousand  boats 

All  fighting  for  a  woman  on  the  sea. 

And  pushing  his  black  craft  among  them 
all. 

He  lightly  scatter' d  theirs  and  brought 
her  oflF, 

With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow-slain  ; 

A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  wonderful. 

They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when 
she  moved  : 

And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield  her 
up. 

The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy  ; 

Then  made  her  Queen  :  but  those  isle- 
nurtur'd  eyes 

Waged  suchunwillingtho'  successful  war 

On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken'd  ;  coun- 
cils thinn'd, 

And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-like  she 
drew 

The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters'  hearts  ; 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


169 


And  beasts  themselves  would  worship  ; 

camels  knelt 
Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain 

back 
That  carry  kings  in  castles,  bow'd  black 

knees 
Of  homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent 

hands, 
To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle- 
bells. 
What  wonder,  being  jealous,  that  he  sent 
His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro'  all 
The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he 

sway'd 
To  find  a  wizard  who  might  teach  the 

King 
Some  charm,  which  being  wrought  upon 

the  Queen 
Might  keep  her  all  his  own  :  to  such  a  one 
He  promised  more  than  ever  king  has 

given, 
A  league  of  mountain  full  of  golden  mines, 
A  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of  coast, 
A  palace  and  a  princess,  all  for  him  : 
But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail'd,  the 

King 
Pronounced  a  dismal  sentence,  meaning 

by  it 
To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders  back. 
Or  likf!  a  king,  not  to  be  trifled  with  — 
Their  heads  should  moulder  on  the  city 

gates. 
And  many  tried  and  fail'd,  because  the 

charm 
Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own  : 
And  many  a  wizard   brow  bleach'd  on 

the  walls  : 
And  many  weeks  a  troop  of  carrion  crows 
Hung  like  a  cloud  above  the   gateway 

towers." 

And  Vivien  breakingin  upon  him,  said  : 
"  I  sit  and  gather  honey  ;  yet,  methinks, 
Your  tongue  has  tript  a  little  :  ask  your- 
self. 
The  lady  never  made  unwilling  war 
With  those  fine  eyes  :  she  had  her  pleas- 
ure in  it. 
And  made  her  good  man  jealous  with 

good  cause. 
And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor  dam- 
sel then 
Wroth  at  a  lover's  loss  ?  were  all  as  tame, 
I  mean,  as  noble,  a.s  their  Queen  was  fair  ? 
Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes, 
Or  pinch  a  murderousdust  into  herdrink. 
Or  make  her  paler  with  a  poisoa'd  roie  ? 


Well,  those  were  not  our  days  :  but  did 

they  find 
A  wizard  ?  Tell  me,  was  he  like  to  thee  ?" 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm 

round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let 

her  eyes 
Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  ;i 

bride's 
On  hernew  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of  men. 

He  answer'd  laughing,  "Nay,  not  like 

to  me. 
At  last   they  found  —  his   foragers   for 

charms  — 
A  little  glassy-headed  hairless  man. 
Who  lived  alone  in  a  gi-eat  wild  on  grass  ; 
Read  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading  grew 
So  grated   down   and   filed   away   with 

thought. 
So  lean  his  eyes  were  monstrous  ;  while 

the  skin 
Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs  and 

spine. 
And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one  sole 

aim, 
Nor  ever  touch' d  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted 

flesh, 
Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the  wall 
That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-casting 

men 
Became  a  crystal,  andhe  saw  them  thro' it. 
And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind  the 

wall, 
Andleamttheirelemental  secrets,  powers 
And  forces;  often  o'erthesun'sbrighteye 
Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud, 
And  lash'd  it  at  the  base  with  slanting 

storm  ; 
Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving  rain, 
When  the  lake  whiten'd  and  the  pine- 
wood  roar'd. 
And  the  cairn'd  mountain  was  a  shadow, 

sunn'd 
The  world  to  peace  again  :  here  was  the 

man. 
And  so  by  force  they  dragg'd  him  to  the 

King. 
And  then  he  taught  the  King  to  charm 

the  Queen 
In  such-wise,  that  no  man  could  see  her 

more, 
Nor  .saw  she  save  the  King,  who  wrought 

the  chann. 
Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as  dead, 
And  lost  all  use  of  life  :  but  when  the  King 


m 


MERLIN    AND    VIVIEN. 


"  She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm  round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let  her  eyes 
Speak  for  her." 


Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  golden  mines, 
The  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of 

coast, 
The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old  man 
Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived  on 

grass, 
And  vanish'd,  and  his  book  came  down 

to  me." 

And  Vivien  answer' d  smiling  saucily  ; 
"You   have   the   book:   the   charm    is 

written  in  it : 
Good  :  take  my  counsel :  let  me  know 

it  at  once  : 
For  keep  it  like  a  puzzle  chest  in  chest, 
With  each  chest   lock'd  and  padlock'd 

thirty-fold, 
And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a 

mound 
As  after  furious  battle  turfs  the  slain 
On  some  wi'd  down  above  the  windy  deep, 
I  yet  should  strike  upon  a  sudden  means 
To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the  charm: 
Then,  if  I  tried  it,  who  should  blame  me 

then  ? " 


And  smiling  as  a  Master  smiles  at  one 
That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any  school 
But  that  wheve  blind  and  naked  Ignorance 
Delivers  bra wlingjudgments, unashamed, 
On  all  things  all  day  long  ;  he  answer'd 
her. 

"  FoMreadthebook,mypretty Vivien! 
0  ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 
But  every  page  having  an  ample  marge, 
And  every  mart^'e  enclosing  in  the  midst 
A  square  of  text  that  looks  a  little  blot, 
The  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of  fleas  ; 
.And  every  square  of  text  an  awful  charm, 
Writ  in  a  language  that  has  long  gone  by. 
So  long,  that  mountains  have  arisen  since 
With  cities  on  their  flanks  —  you  read 

the  book  ! 
And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost,  and 

cramm'd 
With   comment,  densest   condensation, 

hard 
To  mind  and  eye  ;  but  the  long  sleepless 

nights 
Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to  me. 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


171 


And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even  I  ; 
And  none   can  read   the  comment  but 

myself  ; 
And  in  the  comment  did  I  find  the  charm. 
0,  the  results  are  simple  ;  a  mere  child 
Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one, 
And  never  could  undo  it :  ask  no  more  : 
Fortho'  you  should  not  prove  it  upon  me, 
But  keep  that  oath  you  swore,  you  might, 

perchance, 
Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  Table  Round, 
And  all  because  you  dream  they  babble 

of  you." 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  tnie  anger, 

said  : 
"  What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of  me  ? 
They    ride    abroad     redressing    human 

wrongs  ! 
They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine  in 

horn. 
They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity  ! 
Were  I  not  woman,  I  could  tell  a  tale. 
But  you  are  man,  you  well  can  understand 
The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain'd  for 

shame. 
Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch  me : 

swine  ! " 

Then  answer'd  Merlin  careless  of  her 
*      words. 
"  Ye  breathe   but  accusation   vast  and 

vague. 
Spleen-born,  I  think,  and  proofless.     If 

ye  know. 
Set  up  the  charge  ye  know,  to  stand  or 
fall!" 

And  Vivien  answer'd  frowning  wrath- 

fully. 
*'  0  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence,  him 
Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o'er  his 

wife 
And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  distant 

lands  ; 
Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning  found 
Not  two  but  three  :  there  lay  the  reck- 
ling, one 
But  one  hour  old  !     What  said  the  happy 

sire  ? 
A  seven  months'  babe  had  been  a  truer 

gift. 
Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused  his 

fatherhood." 

Then  answer'd  Merlin  "  Nay,  I  know 
the  tale.  ■   ♦ 


Sir   Valence  wedded  with  an  outland 

dame  : 
Some  cause  had  kept  him  sunder'd  from 

his  wife  : 
One  child  tl.ey  had  :  it  lived  with  her : 

she  died  : 
His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  own  affair 
Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring  home 

the  child. 
He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore  :  take 

the  truth." 

"0  ay,"  said  Vivien,  *'  overtrue  a  tale. 
What  tay  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sagi'amore, 
That  ardent  man  ?  '  to  pluck  the  flower 

in  season '  ; 
So  says  the  song,  '  I  trow  it  is  no  treason.' 

0  Master,  shall  we  call  him  overquick 
To  crop  his   own   sweet  rose  before  the 

hour  ? " 

And  Merlin  answer'd  "Overquick  are 

you 
To  catch  a  lothly  plume  fall'n  from  the 

wing 
Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole  prey 
Is  man's  good  name  :  he  never  wrong'd 

his  bride. 

1  know  the  tale.     An  angry  gust  of  wind 
Puff  d  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad- 

room'd 

And  many-corridor'd  complexities 

Of  Arthur's  palace  :  then  he  found  a  door 

And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured  orna- 
ment 

That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem  his 
own  ; 

And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch  and 
.slept, 

A  stainless  man  beside  a  stainless  maid  ; 

And  either  .slept,  nor  knew  of  other  there; 

Till  the  high  dawn  jnercing  the  royal  rose 

In  Arthur's  casement  glimmer'd  chastely 
down, 

Blushingupon  them  blushing,  andatoncc 

He  rose  without  a  word  and  parted  from 
her  : 

But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about  the 
court. 

The  brute  world  howling  forced  them  in- 
to bonds. 

And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy,  being 
pure." 

"O  ay,"  .said  Vivien,  "  that  wen;  likely 

too. 
What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  I'ercivale 


172 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


And  of   the    horrid    foulness  that  he 

wrought, 
The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb  of 

Christ, 
Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan's  fold. 
"What,  in  the  precinctsof  the  chapel-yard, 
Aniong  the  knightly  brassesot  thegraves, 
And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the  dead  !  " 

And  Merlin  answer'd  careless  of  her 
charge, 

"  A  sober  man  is  Pei-civale  and  pure  ; 

But  once  in  life  was  fluster'd  with  new 
wine. 

Then  jiaced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel- 
yard  ; 

"Whereone  of  Satan'sshepherdesses  caught 

And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her  mas- 
ter's mark  ; 

And  that  he  sinn'd,  is  not  believable  ; 

For,  look  upon  hisface  !  —  but  iflie  sinn'd. 

The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the  blood. 

And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings 
remorse. 

Will  bmnd  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we  be  : 

Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose 
hjTnns 

Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than 
all. 

But  is  your  spleen  froth'd  out,  or  have 
ye  more  ? " 

And  Vivien  answer'd  frowning  yet  in 

wrath  ; 
"Oay ;  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot,  friend? 
Traitor  or  true  ?  that  commerce  with  the 

Queen, 
I  ask  you,  is  it  clamor'd  by  the  child, 
Or  whisper'd  in  the  corner  ?  do  you  know 

it?" 

To  which  he  answer'd  sadly,  "Yea,  I 

know  it. 
Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at  first. 
To  fetch  her,  and  she  took  him  for  the 

King  ; 
So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  :  let  him  be. 
But  have  you  no  one  word  of  loyal  praise 
For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stainless 

man  f 

She  answer'd  with  a  low  and  chuckling 

laugh  ; 
"  Him  ?  is  he  man  at  all,  who  knows  and 

winks  ? 
Sees  what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does,  and 

winks  ? 


By  which  the  good  king  means  to  blind 

himself. 

And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table 
Round 

Toall  the  foulnessthat  they  work.    Myself 

Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for  woman- 
hood) 

The  pretty,  popular  name  such  manhood 
earns, 

Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all  their 
crime  ; 

Yea,  were  he  not  crown'd  king,  coward, 
and  fool." 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart,  loath- 
ing, said  ; 
"0  true  and  tender  !  Omyliegeandking! 
0  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentleman, 
Who   wouldst   against  thine   own   eye- 
witness lain 
Havea-l  men  trueandleal,  all  women  pure; 
How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  inter])reters. 
From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 
To  things  with  every  tense  as  false  and  foul 
As  the  poach'd  filth  that  floods  the  middle 

street. 
Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accounted 
blame ! " 

But  Vivien  deeming  Merlin  overborne 
By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let  her 

tongue 
Kage  like  a  fire  aniong  the  noblest  names, 
Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole  self. 
Defaming  and  delacing,  till  she  left 
Not  even  Lancelot  bmve,  nor  Gajahad 
clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she 

wiU'd. 
He   dragg'd  his  eyebrow  bushes   down, 

and  made 
A  snowy  penthouse  for  his  hollow  eyes. 
And  mutter'd  in  himself,  "tell  litr  the 

charm  ! 
So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 
To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it  not. 
So  will  she  rail.    What  did  the  wanton  say  ? 
'  Not  mount  as  high  '  ;  we  scarce  can  sink 

as  low  : 
For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and 

earth. 
But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven 

and  Hell. 
Iknowthe  Table  Round,  my  friends  of  old ; 
AU  brave,  and  many  generous,  and  some 
V  •  chaste. 


MEELIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


173 


I  think  she  cloaks  the  wounds  of  loss  with 

lies  ; 
I  do  believe  she  tempted  them  and  fail'd, 
She  is  so  bitter :  for  fine  plots  may  foil, 
Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well  as  face 
With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not  theirs. 
I  will  not  let  her  know :  nine  tithes  of 

times 
Face-flatterers  and  backbiters  are  the 

same. 
And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  impute 

a  crime 
Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  themselves, 
Wanting  the  mental  range  ;  or  low  desire 
Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level  all ; 
Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to 

the  plain, 
To  leave  an  equal  baseness  ;  and  in  this 
Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if  they  find 
Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a  name  of  note. 
Not  grieving  that  their  gi-eatest  are  so 

small, 
Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane  de- 

.   light. 
And  judge  all  nature  from  her  teet  of  clay. 
Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  see 
Her  godlike  head  crown'd  with  spiritual 

fire, 
And  touching  other  worlds.     I  am  weary 

of  her." 

He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in  whis- 
pers part, 
Half-suffocated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter'd  fleece  of  throat  and 

chin. 
But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of  his 

mood. 
And  hearing  "  harlot "  mutter'd  twice  or 

thrice, 
Leapt  from  hersession  on  his  lap,  andstood 
Stiff  as  a  viper  frozen  ;  loathsome  sight. 
How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and  love, 
Flash'd   the   bare-grinning  skeleton   of 

death  ! 
White  was  her  cheek  ;  sharp  breaths  of 

anger  puff'd 
Her  fairy  nostril  out ;   her  hand  half- 

clench'd 
Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to  her 

belt. 
And  feeling ;  had  she  found  a  dagger  there 
(For  in  a  wink  the  false  love  turns  to  hate) 
She  would  have  stabb'd  him  ;  but  she 

found  it  not : 
His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she  took 
To  bitter  weeping  like  a  beaten  child, 


A  long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 
Then  her  false  voice  made  way  broken 
with  sobs. 

"0  crueller  than  was  ever  told  in  tale. 
Or  sung  in  song  !  0  vainly  lavish'd  love  ! 

0  cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or  strange. 
Or  seeming  shameful,  for  what  shame  in 

love. 
So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is  — 

nothing 
Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his  trust 
Who  call'd  her  what  he  call'd  her — all 

her  crime. 
All  —  all  —  the  wish  to  prove  him  wholly 

hers." 

She  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapt  her 

hands 
Together  with  a  wailing  shriek,  and  said  : 
"  Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affections 

to  the  lieart  ! 
Seethed  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother's 

milk  ! 
Kill'd  with  a  M'ord  woi-se  than  a  life  of 

blows  ! 

1  thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being  gi'eat : 

0  God,  that  I  had  loved  a  smaller  man  ! 

1  shouldhave  found  in  him  a  greater  heart. 
0,  1,  that  flattering  my  true  passion,  saw 
The  knights,  the  court,  the  king,  dark 

in  your  light. 
Who  love  to  make  men  darker  than  they 

are, 
Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which  I  had 
To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 
Of  worship  —  1  am  answer'd,  and  hence- 
forth 
The  course  of  life  that  seem'd  so  flowery 

to  me 
With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only  you, 
Becomes  the   sea-clifl'  pathway  broken 

short, 
And  ending  in  a  ruin  —  nothing  left, 
But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and  there, 
If  the  wolf  spare  me,  weep  my  life  away, 
Kill'd  with  inutterable  unkindliness." 

She  paused,  she  turn'd  away,  she  hung 

her  head. 
The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair,  the 

braid 
Slipt  and  uncoil'd  itself,  she  wept  afresh, 
And  the  dark  wood  grew  darker  toward 

tlie  storm 
In  silence,  wliile  his  anger  slowly  died 
Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 


174 


iMERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


'  Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and  stood 
Stiff  as  a  viper  frozen." 


For  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed  her 

true  : 
Call'd  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 
"Come  from  the  storm"  and  having  no 

reply, 
Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and  the 

face 
Hand-hidden,    as    for  utmost  grief    or 

shame  ; 
Then  thrice  essay'd,  by  tenderest-touch- 

ing  terms 
To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in  vain. 
Atlast  she  let  herself  be  conquer'dbyhim. 
And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  returns, 
The  seeming-injured  simple-hear':ed  thing 
Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  settled 

there. 


There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from  his 

knees. 
Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he  saw 
The  slow  tear  creep  frorn  her  closed  eye- 
lid yet, 
About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in  love. 
The  gentle  wizard  cast  a  shielding  arm. 
But  she  dislink'd  herself  at  once  and  rose. 
Her  arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and 

stood 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman  deeply  wrong'd. 
Upright  and  flush'd  before  him  :  then  she 
said  : 

"  There  must  be  now  no  passages  of  love 
Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  evemiore. 
Since,  if  I  be  what  I  am  gro.ssly  call'd, 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


175 


What  should  be  granted  which  your  own 

gross  heart 
Would  reckon  worth  the  taking  ?  I  will  go. 
In  truth,  but  one  thing  now — better  have 

died 
Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once  —  could 

make  me  stay  — 
That  proof  of  trust  —  so  often  asked  in 

vain  ! 
How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of  yours, 
I  find  with  grief !     I  might  believe  you 

then. 
Who  knows  ?  once  more.     0,  what  was 

once  to  me 
Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  has  grown 
The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 
Farewell ;  think  kindly  of  rae,  for  I  fear 
My  fate  or  fault,  omitting  gayer  youth 
For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  you  still. 
But  ere  I  leave  you  let  me  swear  once 

more 
That  if  I  schemed  against  your  peace  in 

this. 
May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens  o'er 

me,  send 
One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else, 

may  make 
My  scheming  brain  a  cinder,  if  I  lie." 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of 

heaven  a  bolt 
(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above  them) 

struck. 
Furrowing  a  giant  oak,  and  javelining 
With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of  the 

wood 
The  dark  earth  round.  He  raised  his  eyes 

and  saw 
The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro'  the 

gloom. 
But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard  her 

oath. 
And  dazzled  by  the  livid-flickering  fork. 
And  deafen'd  with  the  stammering  cracks 

and  claps 
That  follow'd,  flying  back  and  crying  out, 
"  0  Merlin,  tho'  you  do  not  love  me,  save, 
Yet  save  me  ! "  clung  to  him  and  hugg'd 

him  close  ; 
And  call'd  him  dear  protector  in  her  fri!;;ht, 
Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her  fright, 
But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and  hugg'd 

him  close. 
The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her  touch 
Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal  warm'd. 
She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay 

tales  : 


She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  fault  she 

wept 
Of  petulancy  ;  she  call'd  him  lord  and 

liege. 
Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of  eve, 
Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passionate 

love 
Of  her  whole  life  ;  and  ever  overhead 
Bellow'd  the   tempest,  and  the  rotten 

branch 
Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river  rain 
Above  them  ;  and  in  change  of  glare  and 

gloom 
Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and 

came  ; 
Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion 

spent, 
Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands. 
Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet  on<!e 

more 
To  peace  ;   and  what   should   not  have 

been  had  been. 
For  Merlin,  overtalk'd  and  overworn. 
Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm,  and 

slept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth 

the  chann 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands. 
And  in  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead, 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 

fame. 

Then  crying  "  I  have  made  his  glory 

mine," 
And  shrieking  out  "  0  fool ! "  the  harlot 

leapt 
Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket  closed 
Behind  her,  and  the  forest  echo'd  "fool." 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 

Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 

High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the 

east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot ; 
Which  first  she  placed  where  morning's 

earliest  ray 
Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the 

gleam  ; 
Then  fearingrust  orsoihire  fashion'd  forit 
A  case  of  silk,  and  Imaided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon'd  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tincit,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 
A  border  fanta.sy  of  l)ran('h  and  flower. 


.'^^ 


176 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the  nest. 
Nor   rested   thus   content,   but  day  by 

day 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father 

climb'd 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  harr'd 

her  door, 
Stript  oif  the  case,  and  read  the  naked 

shield, 
Now  guess'd  a  hidden  meaning  in  his 

anns, 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it, 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made  upon 

it, 
Conjecturing  when  and  where  :  this  cut 

is  fresh  ; 
That  ten  yeai-s  back  ;  this  dealt  him  at 

Caerlyle  ; 
That  at  Caerleon  ;  this  at  Camelot  : 
And  ah  God's  mercy  what  a  stroke  was 

there  ! 
And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  kill'd, 

but  God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roU'd  his 

enemy  down. 
And  saved  him  :  so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good 

shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n  his 

name  ? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond 

jousts, 
"Which  Arthur  had  ordain'd,  and  by  that 

name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was 

the  prize. 

For  Arthur  long  before  they  crown'd 

him  king, 
Roving   the   trackless  realms  of  Lyon- 

nesse, 
Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and  black 

tarn. 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain 

.side  : 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had 

met 
And  fought  together ;  but  their  names 

were  lost. 
And   each  had   slain   his  brother  at  a 

blow, 
And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen 

abhorr'd  : 


And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  boD«« 

were  bleach'd, 
And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crag.o  : 
And  he,  that  once  was  king,  had  on  a  crown 
Of  diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four  aside. 
And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the 

pass 
All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 
Had  trodden  that  crown'd  skeleton,  and 

the  skull 
Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull 

the  crown 
RoU'd  into  light,  and  turning  on  its  rims 
Fled  like  a  glittering  rivulet  to  the  tarn  : 
And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged, 

and  caught. 
And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 
Heard  murmurs  "  lo,  thou  likewise  shalt 

be  king." 

Thereafter,  when  a  king,  he  had  the 

gems 
Pluck'd  from  the  crown,  and  show'd  them 

to  his  knights, 
Saying    "  these   jewels,    whereupon    I 

chanced 
Divinely,    are  the  kingdom's    not  the 

king's  — 
For  public  use  :  henceforwardlet  there  be. 
Once  e^ery  year,  a  joust  for  one  of  these  : 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs  must 

learn 
Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves 

shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we  drive 
The  Heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule 

the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."    Thus  he 

spoke  : 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had 

been,  and  still 
Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the 

year. 
With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the 

Queen, 
When  all  were  won  ;  but  meaning  all  at 

once 
To  snare  her  roj-al  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never  spoken 

word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the 

la.st 

And  largest,  Arthur, holdingthen  his  court 

Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which 

now 

I  Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a  joust 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


177 


At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 

Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guine- 
vere 

"  Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot 
move 

To  these  fair  jousts  ? "  "  Yea,  lord, "  she 
said,  "ye  know  it." 

"Then  will  ye  miss,"  he  answer'd, 
' '  the  great  deeds 

Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the  lists, 

A  sight  ye  love  to  look  on."  And  the 
Queen 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 

On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the 
King. 

He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning 
there, 

"  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick  ;  my  love  is 
more 

Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded,  and  a 
heart, 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 

(However  much  he  yeam'd  to  make  com- 
plete 

The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined  boon ) 

Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth, 
and  say, 

'*  Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hard- 
ly whole. 

And  lets  me  from  the  saddle  "  ;  and  the 
King 

Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went 
his  way. 

No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began. 

"  To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot, 

much  to  blame. 
Why  go  ye  not  to  these  fair  jousts  ?  the 

knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the 

crowd 
"Will  murmur,  lo  the  shameless  ones,  who 

take 
Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  king  is 

gone  ! " 
Then  l^ncelot  vext  at  having  lied  in  vain  : 
"Are  ye  so  wise  ?  ye  were  not  once  so 

wise. 
My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  ye  loved 

me  first. 
Then  of  the  crowd  ye  took  no  more  ac- 
count 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead. 
When  its  own  voice  clings  to  each  blade 

of  gra.ss, 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.  Astoknights, 
Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 


But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 
Of  all  men  :  many  a  bard,  without  offence. 
Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his  lay, 
Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bmvery,  Guine- 
vere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty  :  and  our  knights  at 

feast 
Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the 

king 
Would  listen  smiling.     How  then  ?  is 

there  more  ? 
Has   Arthur  spoken  aught  ?  or  would 

yourself, 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir. 
Henceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultless  lord?" 

She  broke  into  a  little  sconiful  laugh. 
"Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  faultless 

King, 
That    passionate    perfection,   my   good 

lord  — 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in  heaven  ? 
He  never  spake  word  of  repi'oach  to  me. 
He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  untruth, 
He  cares  not  for  me  :  only  here  to-day 
There  gleam'd  a  vague  suspicion  in  his 

eyes  : 
Some  meddling  rogue  has  tamper'd  with 

him  —  else 
Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible. 
To  make  them  like  himself :  but,  /riend, 

to  me 
He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at  all  : 
For  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch  of 

earth  ; 
The  low  sun  makes  the  color :  I  am  yours, 
Not  Arthur's,  as  ye  know,  save  by  the 

bond. 
And  therefore  hear  my  words  :  go  to  the 

jousts  : 
The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break  our 

dream 
When  sweetest ;  and  the  vermin  voices 

here 
May  buzz  so  loud  —  we  scorn  them,  but 

they  sting." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 
knights. 
"And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext 

made. 
Shall  I  appear,  0  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before  a  king  who  honors  his  own  word. 
As  if  it  were  his  God's  ?" 

"  Yea,"  .said  the  Queen, 
"  A  moral  child  without  the  craft  to  rule. 


178 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Else  had  he  not  lost  me  :  but  listen  to  me, 
If  I  must  find  you  wit :  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  dowu  before  your  spear  at 

a  touch 
But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot ;  your 

great  name, 
This  conquers  :  hide  it  therefore  ;  go  un- 
known : 
Win  !  by  this  kiss  you  will :   and  our 

true  king 
Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  0  my  knight, 
As  all  for  glory  ;  for  to  speak  him  true. 
Ye  know  right  well,  how  meek   soe'er 

he  seem. 
No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 
He  loves  it   in  his  knights   more  than 

himself : 
They  prove  to  him  his  work  :  win  and 

return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to  horse, 
Wroth  at  himself:   not  willing  to   be 

known. 
He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare, 
C!hose  the  green  path  that  show'd  the 

i-arer  foot, 


And  there  among  the  solitary  downs. 
Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way  ; 
Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly -shadow'd  track, 
That  all  inloops  andlinksamongthedales 
Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the 

towers. 
Thither  he  made  and  wound  the  gateway 

horn. 
Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-WTin- 

kled  man, 
Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarm'd. 
And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  tlie  wordless 

man ; 
And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 
With  two  strong  sons.  Sir-  Torre  and  Sir 

Lavaine, 
Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court ; 
And  close  behind  them  stent  the  lily  maid 
Elaine,  his  daughter  :  motherof  the  house 
There  was  not :  some  light  jest  among 

them  rose 
With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great 

knight 
Approach'd    them  :  then  the   Lord  of 

Astolat. 


"  Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wiinkle'l  man. 
Who  let  him  into  lodjfinjj  and  disarm'd." 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


179 


""WTience  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and 
by  what  name 

Livest  between  the  lips  ?  for  by  thy  state 

And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief  of 
those. 

After  the  king,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 

Him  have  1  seen :  the  rest,  his  Table 
Round, 

Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  un- 
known." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 

knights. 
"  Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall,  and 

known, 
What  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought, 

my  shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me  not, 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  me  —  and  the 

shield  — 
I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have. 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not 


Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  **  Here 

is  Torre's  : 
Hurt  in  his  iarst  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir 

Torre. 
And  80,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank 

enough. 
His  ye  can  have."     Then    added  plain 

Sir  Torre, 
"Yea  since   I  cannot   use  it,  ye   may 

have  it." 
Here  laugh'd  the  father  saying  "  Fie,  Sir 

Churl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight? 
Allow  him:  but  La  vaine,  my  younger  here, 
He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride, 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an 

hour 
.And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair. 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before." 

"  Nay,  father,  nay  good  father,  shame 

me  not 
Before  this  noble  knight "  said  young 

La  vaine 
"  For  nothing.     Surely  I  but  play'd  on 

Torre  : 
Hp  seem'd. so  sullen,  vexthe  could  not  go  : 
A  jest,  no  more  :  for,  knight,  the  maiden 

dream. 
That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her 

hand. 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held, 


And  slipt   and  fell  into   some  pool  or 

stream. 
The  castle-well,  belike  ;  and  then  I  said 
That  if  I  went  and  i/I  fought  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  ourselves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All  was 

jest. 
But  father  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will. 
To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight : 
Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win  : 
Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  I  do  my  best." 

"So   ye   will   grace    me,"    answer'd 

Lancelot, 
Smiling  a  moment,  "with  your  fellowship 
O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost 

myself. 
Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and 

friend  ; 
And  you  shall  win  this  diamond  —  as  I 

hear. 
It  is  a  fair  large  diamond,  —  if  ye  may, 
And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye  will." 
"A  fair  large   diamond,"  added  plain 

Sir  Torre, 
"  Such  be  for  Queens  and  not  for  simple 

maids." 
Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 

ground, 
Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost  about, 
Flush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  disparage- 
ment 
Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking 

at  her. 
Full  courtly,  yet  notfalsely, thus retum'd. 
"  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair, 
And  only  Queens  are  to  be  counted  so. 
Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem 

this  maid 
Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth. 
Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like." 

He  spoke  and  ceased  :  the  lily  maid 

Elaine, 
Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she  look'd. 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineaments. 
The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the 

Queen, 
In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord. 
Had  marr'd  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere  his 

time. 
Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one. 
The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the 

world. 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it  :  but  in  him 
His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and  rose 
An<l  diove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 


180 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


'  Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineaments." 


For  affony,  wlio  ■was  ypt  a  livinfr  fouI. 
Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  goodliest 

man, 
That  ever  amonc  ladies  nte  in  Hall, 
And  nohle?t,  when  she  lifted  np  her  eyes. 
However  marr'd,  of  more  than  twice  her 

years, 
Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on  the 

cheek. 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up 

her  eves 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was 

her  doom. 

•  Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of 

the  conrt. 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 


Stejit  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half 

disdain 
Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time, 
But  kindly  man  moving  among  his  kind  : 
"Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of 

their  best 
And  talk  nnd  minstrelmelodyentertain'd. 
And  much  they  ask'd  of  court  and  Table 

Round, 
And  evpr  well  and  readily  answer'd  he  : 
But    Lancelot,    when    they   glanced  at 

Ouinevere, 
Suddenlv  speakincr  of  the  wordless  man, 
Heard  fiom  the   Baron   that,   ten  years 

b(>fnre, 
The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his 

tongue. 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


181 


••  He  learnt  and  warn'd  me  of  their  fierce 

design 
Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught 

and  maim'd  ; 
But  I  my  sons  and  little  daughter  fled 
From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among 

the  woods 
By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 
Dull  days  were  those,  till  ourgood  Arthur 

broke 
The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hill." 

"O   there,   great   Lord,    doubtless," 

Lavaine  said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of 

youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "  you  have 

fought. 
0  tell  us  —  for  we  live  apart  —  you  know 
Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars."  And  Lan- 
celot spoke 
And  answer'd  him  at  full,  as  having  been 
With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day  long 
Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent 

Glem; 
And  in  the  four  wild  battles  by  the  shore 
Of  Duglas  ;  that  on  Bassa  ;  then  the  war 
That  thunder'd  in  and  out  the  gloomy 

skirts 
Of  Celidon  the  forest ;  and  again 
By  castle  Gurnion  where  thegloiious  King 
Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady's  Head, 
Carved  of  one  emerald,  center'd  in  a  sun 
Of  silver   rays,    that   lighten'd   as    he 

breathed  ; 
And  at  Caerleon  had  he  help'd  his  lord, 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild 

white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering  ; 
And  up  in  Agned  Cathregonion  too. 
And  do'.vn  the  waste  sand-shores  of  Trath 

Treroit, 
"Where  many  a  heathen  fell;  "and  on 

the  mount 
Of  HadoT  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table  Round, 
And  a'l  hislegionscryingChristand  him. 
Ami  break  them  ;  and  I  saw  him,  after, 

stand 
Hisfh  on  a  heap  of  .slain,  from  spnrto  plume 
Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood. 
And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice  he  cried 
'  They  are  broken,  they  are  broken '  for 

the  Kina;, 
Ho'vever  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor  cares 
For  trium]>h   in  our  mimic  wars,  the 

jousts  — 


For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he 

laughs 
Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than 

he  — 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 
Fills  him:  Ineversawhislike:  therelives 
No  greater  leader." 

While  he  utter'd  this. 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid 
"Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord"  ;  and 

when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry  — 
Biing  mirthful  he  but  in  a  stately  kind — 
She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living 

smile 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a  cloud 
Of  melancholy  severe,  from  which  again, 
W^henever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him 

cheer. 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tender- 
ness 
Ofmannersandofnature :  andshe  thought 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for  her. 
And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her  lived. 
As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face. 
Divinely  thro' all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face, 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life. 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest ;  so  the  face  before  her  lived. 
Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence, 

full 
Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her 

sleep. 
Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the 

thought 
She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet 

Lavaine. 
First  as  in  fear,  .step  after  step,  she  stole 
Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating  : 
Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the 

court, 
"This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it?" 

and  Lavaine 
Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the 

tower. 
There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot  tum'd, 

and  smooth'd 
The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 
Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she 

drew 
Nearer  and  stood.     He  look'd,  and  more 

amazed 
Than  if  .<!even  men  had  set  upon  him,  saw 
The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  litjht. 
He  had  not  dream'd  she  was  so  beautifuL 


182 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear, 
For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 
Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 
Suddenly  Uash'd  on  her  a  wild  desire, 
That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the  tilt. 
She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking  for  it. 
*'  Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not  — 

noble  it  is, 
I  well  believe,  the  noblest  — will  you  wear 
My  favor  at  this  tourney?"     "Nay," 

said  he, 
'*  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 
Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know  me, 

know." 
"Yea,  so,"  she  answer'd  ;  "  then  in  wear- 
ing mine 
Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble 

lord. 
That  those  who  know  should  know  you." 

And  he  turn'd 
Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his  mind, 
And  found  it  true,  and  answer'd,  "true, 

my  child. 
Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  it  out  to  me  : 
What  is  it?"  and  she  told  him  "a  red 

sleeve 
Broider'd  with  pearls,"  and  brought  it : 

then  he  bound 
Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 
Saying,  "  I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 
For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face  and  fill'd  her  with  de- 
light ; 
But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning  brought  the   yet-unblazon'd 

shield, 
His  brother's ;  which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 
Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine  ; 
"  Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my 

shield 
In  keeping  till  I  come."     "A  grace  to 

me," 
She  answer'd,  "  twice  to-day.    I  am  your 

Squire." 
Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing,  ' '  Lily 

maid. 
For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 
In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color  back  ; 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice  :  now  get  you 

hence  to  bed  "  : 
So  kiss'd  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own 

hand. 
And  thus  they  moved  away  :  she  stay'd 

a  minute. 
Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate, 

and  there  — 


Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious 

face 
Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother'skiss — 
Paused  in  the  gateway,  standing  by  the 

shield 
In  silence,  while  she  watch'd  their  arms 

far-off 
Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the  downs. 
Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and  took 

the  shield, 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  past 
away 

Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 
downs. 

To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived 
a  knight 

Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty  years 

A  hermit,  who  had  pray  d,  labor'd  and 
pray'd 

And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  himself 

In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 

On  massive  columns,  like  a  shorecliff 
cave. 

And  cells  and  chambei"s  :  all  were  fan- 
and  diy  ; 

The  green  light  from  the  meadows  under- 
neath 

Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky 
roofs  ; 

And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen- 
trees 

And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling 
showers. 

And  thither  wending  there  that  night 
they  bode. 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from  un- 
derground. 

And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the 
cave. 

They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and 
rode  away  : 

Then  Lancelot  saying,  "hear,  but  hold 
my  name 

Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake," 

Abash'd  Lavaine,  whose  instant  rever- 
ence, 

Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their 
own  praise. 

But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  "is  it 
indeed  ? " 

And  aftermuttering"  the  great  Lancelot" 

At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer'd 
"One, 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


18S 


'  Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and  took  the  shield, 
There  kept  it.  and  so  liveti  in  fantasy." 


One  have  I  seen  —  that  other,  our  liege 

lord, 
The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  kin;^  of 

kings, 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously, 
He  will  be  there  —  then  were  I  stricken 

blind 
Tliatmiuute,  I  might  say  that  I  had  seen." 

So   spake   Lavaine,    and    when    they 

reach'd  the  lists 
'By  Canielot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  which  half 

round 
Liiy  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the  grass. 
Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King, 

who  sat 


Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known, 

Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon 
clung, 

■And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed 
in  gold. 

And  from  the  carven-work  behin<l  him 
crept 

Two  dragonsgildcd,  slopingdown  to  make 

Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of 
them 

Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innumer- 
able . 

Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they 
found 

Tlie  new  design  wherein  they  lost  them- 
selves. 

Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the  work : 


184 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  him  set, 
Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless 

king-  ,,  ,       . 

Then  Lancelot  answer  d  young  Lavaine 

and  said, 
"  Me  you  call  great :  mine  is  the  firmer 

seat, 
The  truer  lance :  but  there  is  many  a  youth 
Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  1  am 
And  overcome  it ;  and  in  me  there  dwells 
No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-oif 

touch 
Of  gi-eatness  to  know  well  I  am  not  great : 
There  is  the  man."     And  Lavaine  gaped 

upon  him 
As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
The  trumpets  blew  ;  and  then  did  either 

side. 
They  that  assail' d,  and  they  that  held 

the  lists, 
Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly 

move. 
Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  furiously 
Shock,  that  a  man  far-off'  might  well  per- 
ceive, 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield, 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thunder 

of  arms. 
And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 
Which  were  the  weaker  ;  then  he  hurl'd 

into  it 
Against  the  stronger  :  little  need  to  speak 
Of  Lancelot  in  hisglory :  King,  duke,  earl, 
Count,  baron  —  whom  he  smote,  he  over- 
threw. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith 

and  kin, 
Ranged  with  the  Table  Round. that  held 

the  lists. 
Strong  men,  and  \vrathful  that  a  stranger 

knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot ;  and  one  said  to  the  other 

"Lo! 
What  is  he  ?    I  do  not  mean  the  force 

alone. 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man  — 
Is  it  not  Lancelot ! "  "  When  has  Lance- 
lot worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 
Not  such  his  wont,  a.s  we,  that  know  him, 

know." 
"  How  then  ?  who  then  ?"  a  fury  seized 

on  them, 
A  tiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 


They  couch'd  their  spears  and  prick'd 

their  steeds  and  thus. 
Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the 

wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North-sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit, 

bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the 

skies, 
Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the  bark. 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spuar 
Down-glancing,  lamed  the  charger,  and  a 

spear 
Prick'd  shai'ply  his  own  cuiras.s,  and  the 

head 
Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt, 

and  remain'd.     - 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  worship- 

fully  ; 
He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the 

earth, 
And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot  where 

he  lay. 
He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony,  got. 
But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet 

endure, 
And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 
His  jtarty,  —  tho'  it  seemed  half-miracle 
To  those  he  fought  with  —  drave  his  kith 

and  kin. 
And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the 

lists. 
Back  to  the  barrier  ;   then  the  heralds 

blew 
Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore  the 

sleeve 
Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls  ;  and  all  the 

knights, 
His   party,   cried  "Advance,   and  take 

your  piize 
The  diamond "  ;  but  he  answer'd,  "dia- 
mond me 
No  diamonds  !  for  God's  love,  a  little  air ! 
Prize  me  no  ])rizes,  for  my  prize  is  death  ! 
Hence  will  I  and  I  charge  you,  follow  me 

not." 

He  spoke,  and  vanish'd  suddenly  from 
the  field 

With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar  grove. 

There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid,  and 
sat, 

Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  ' '  draw  the  lance- 
head  "  : 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


185 


"Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,"  said 

Lavaine, 
"  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  ye  will  die." 
But  he  "  I  die  already  with  it :  draw  — 
Draw,"  —  and  Lavaine  drew,  and  that 

other  gave 
A  naarvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly 

groan. 
And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and  down 

he  sank 
For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon'd 

away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare  him  in. 
There  stanch'd  his  wound  ;  and  there,  in 

daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a  week 
Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by  the 

grove 
Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling 

showers. 
And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled 
the  lists. 
His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and 

West, 
Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  desolate 

isles, 
Came  round  their  great  Pendragon,  say- 
ing to  him 
"  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight  thro'  whom  we 

won  the  day 
Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left 

his  prize 
Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death." 
"  Heaven  hinder,"  said  the  King,  "  that 

such  an  one, 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to- 
day- 
He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot  — 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lance- 
lot- 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.  Wherefore 
rise, 

0  Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the 

knight. 
Wounded  and  wearied  needs  must  he  be 
near. 

1  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to  horse. 
And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes 

not  one  of  you 
Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly 

given  : 
His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.     We  will 

do  him 
No  customary  honor  :  .since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  piize. 


Ourselves  will  send  it  after.     Rise  and 

take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return, 
And  bring  us  where  he  isand  how  he  fares. 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest,  until  you 

find." 

So  saying  from  th?  carven  flower  above. 
To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  he  took, 
And  gave,  the  diamond  :  then  from  where 

he  sat 
At  Arthur's  right,  withsmilin  facearose. 
With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart,  a 

Prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his  May, 
Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous,  luir 

and  strong. 
And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Geraint 
And  Lamorack,  a  good  knight,  but  there- 
withal 
Sir  Modred's  brother,  of  a  crafty  house. 
Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  king's  command  to  sally 

forth 
In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made  him 

leave 
The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights 

and  kings. 

So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  an  d  went ; 
While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in 

mood, 
Past,  thinking  "is  it  Lancelot  who  has 

come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for  gain 
Of  glory,  and  has  added  wound  to  wound. 
And  ridd'u  away  to  die  ? "     So  fear'd  the 

King, 
And,  after  two  days'  tarriance  there,  re- 

turn'd. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embracing 

ask'd, 
"Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick?"     "Nay, 

lord,"  she  said. 
"And  where  is  Lancelot?"     Then  the 

Queen  amazed 
"  Was  he  not  with  you  ?  won  he  not  your 

prize  ? " 
"  Nay,  but  one  like  him."     "  Why  that 

like  was  he." 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she 

knew. 
Said    "Lord,   no  sooner  had  ye  parted 

from  us. 
Than  Lancelot  told  meof  a  coninioii  talk 
That  men  went  down  before  his  spear  l.^ 

a  touch, 


186 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot  ;  his  great 

name 
Conqner'd  ;  and  therefore  would  he  hide 

his  name 
From  all  men,  ev'n  the  king,  and  to  this  end 
Had  made   the   pretext  of  a  hindering 

wound, 
That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all,  and 

learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  decay'd  : 
And  added,  '  our  true  Arthur,  when  he 

learns. 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory.' " 

Then  replied  the  King  : 
"  Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  been. 
In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth. 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  has  trusted  you. 
Surely  his  king  and  most  familiar  friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.     True, 

indeed. 
Albeit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical. 
So  fine  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 
Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter  : 

now  remains 
But  little  cause  for  laughter  :   his  own 

kin  — 
111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love  him, 

these  ! 
His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon 

him  ; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the 

field: 
Yet  good  news  too  :  for  goodly  hopes  are 

mine 
That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely  heart. 
He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his  helm 
A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great 

pearls, 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 

"Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 
"  Your  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying  that 

she  choked, 
Andsharply  turn'dabout  tohideher  face. 
Past   to  ner  chamber,  and  there   flung 

herself 
Down  on   the  great  King's  couch,  and 

writhed  upon  it. 
And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the 

palm, 
And  shiiek'd  out  "traitor"  to  the  un- 

hearing  wall, 
Then  fla,sh'd  into  wild  tears,  and  rose 

again. 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and 

pale. 


Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region 

round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the 

quest, 
Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar 

grove. 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat : 
Whom  glittering  in  enamell'd  arms  the 

maid 
Glanced  at,  and  cried  "What  news  from 

Camelot,  lord  ? 
What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve  ?" 

"  He  won." 
"I  knew  it,"  she  said.     "But  parted 

from  the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side,"  whereat  she  caught 

her  breath  ; 
Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp  lance 

go; 
Thereon  she  smote  her  hand  :  wellnigh 

she  swoon'd  : 
And,  while  he  gazed  wonderinglj'  at  her, 

came 
The  lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the 

Prince 
Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what  quest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could  not 

find 
The  victor,  but  had  ridden  wildly  rwmd 
Toseek  him,  and  was  wearied  ofthesearch. 
To  whom  the  lord  of  Astolat  "  Bide  with 

us, 
And  ride  no  longer  wildly,  noble  Prince  ! 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  a 

shield  ; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for  :  further- 
more 
Our  son  is  with  him  ;  we  shall  hear  anon. 
Needs  must  we  hear."    To  this  the  cour- 
teous Prince 
Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy. 
Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it. 
And  stay'd  ;  and  cast  his   eyes  on  fair 

Elaine : 
Where   could   be   found   face   daintier? 

then  her  shape 
From  forehead  down  to  foot  perfect  — 

again 
From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  tum'd  : 
"Well  —  if  I  bide,  lo  !  this  wild  flower 

for  me  ! " 
And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews. 
And  there  he  set  himself  to  plaj*  upon 

her 
With    sallying  wit,   free  flashes  from  a 

height 
Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and  songs, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


187 


Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  elo- 
quence. 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
Rebell'd   against   it,    saying    to    him, 

"Prince, 
0  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 
Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left, 
Whence   you  might    leam    his  name  ? 

Why  slight  your  King, 
And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on,  and 

prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday. 
Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  him  at,  and 

went 
To   all  the  winds?"     "Nay,  by  mine 

head,"  said  he, 
"  I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 

0  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes  : 
But  an  ye  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield." 
And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and 

Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crown'd  with 

gold. 
Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh, 

and  mock'd  ; 
"Right  w^as  the  King!   our  Lancelot! 

that  true  man  ! " 
"And  right  was  I,"  she  answer'd  mer- 
rily, "I, 
Who  dream'd   my  knight  the  greatest 

knight  of  all." 
"And  if  /dream'd,"  said  Gawain,  "  that 

you  love 
This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon  !  lo, 

you  know  it  ! 
Speak  therefore  :  shall  I  waste  myself  in 

vain  ? " 
Full  simple  was  her    answer   "What 

know  1  ? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellowship, 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talk'd  of 

love. 
Wish'd  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they 

talk'd, 
Meseem'd,  of  what  they  knew  not ;  so 

my.self  — 

1  know  not  if  1  know  what  true  love  is, 
But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
Methinks  there  is  none  other  I  can  love." 
"Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said  he,   "ye 

love  him  well, 
But  would  not,  knew  ye  what  all  others 

know. 
And  whom    he  loves."      "So  be   it," 

cried  Elaine, 
And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away  : 
But  he  pursued  her  calling  "  Stay  a  little  ! 


One  golden  minute's  grace  :  hft  wore  your 

.sleeve  : 
Would  he  break  faith  with  one  1  may  not 

name  ? 
Must  our  tnie  man  change  like  a  leaf  at 

last? 
Nay  —  like  enough  :  why  then,  far  be  it 

from  me 
To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his  loves  ! 
And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full  well 
Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let 

me  leave 
My  quest  with  you  ;  the  diamond  also  : 

here  ! 
For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give  it ; 
.\nd  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have  it 
From  your  own  hand  ;  and  whether  he 

love  or  not, 
A  diamond  is  a  diamond.    Fare  you  well 
A  thousand  times  !  —  a  thousand  times 

farewell  I 
Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we  two 
May  meet  at  court  hereafter  :   there,  I 

think, 
So  you  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the 

court, 
We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave, 
And  slightly  kiss'd  the  hand  to  which  he 

gave. 
The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the 

quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he 

went 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence   to  the  court  he  past ;  there 
told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew  "Sir  Lancelot  is 

the  knight  " 
And  added  "Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I 

learnt  ; 
Bntfail'dto  find  him  tho'  I  rode  all  round 
The  region  :  but  1  lighted  on  the  maid, 
Whose  sleeve  he  wore  ;  she  loves  him  ; 

and  to  her. 
Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law, 
I  gave  the  diamond  :  she  will  render  it ; 
For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hiding- 
place." 

The   seldom -frowning   King  frown'd, 

and  replied, 
"  Too  courteous  truly !  ye  shall  go  no 

more 
On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  forget 
Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to  kings." 


188 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


He  spfike  and  jiarted.     Wroth  but  all 

in  awe, 
For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without 

a  word, 
Linger'd  that  other,  staring  after  him  ; 
Then   shook   his   hair,    strode  off,   and 

buzz'd  abroad 
About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her  love. 
All  ears  were  prick'd  at  once,  all  tongues 

were  loosed  : 
"  The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lancelot, 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat." 
Some   read   the   King's  face,  some   the 

Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but 

most 
Predoom'd  her  as  unworthy.     One  old 

dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the 

shai-p  news. 
She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it  before, 
But   sorrowing    Lancelot   should    have 

stoop'd  so  low, 
Marr'd  her  friend's  point  with  pale  tran- 
quillity. 
So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the  court, 
Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine  days'  wonder 

flared  : 
Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice  or 

thrice 
Forgot  to  drink  to   Lancelot   and  the 

Queen, 
And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily  maid 
Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen 

who  sat 
With  lips  severely  placid  felt  the  knot 
Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet 

unseen 
Cnish'd  the  wild  passion  on'  against  the 

floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats 

became 
As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who 

pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 
Her  guiltless  rival,  .she  that  ever  kept 
The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in    her 

heart. 
Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused  alone, 
Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face  and 

.said, 
"Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the 

fault 
Isyourswholetmehaveniywill,  and  now, 
Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my 

wits?" 


"Nay,"  said  he,   "surely."     "Where- 
fore, let  me  hence," 
She  answer'd,    "and  find  out  our  dear 

Lavaine." 
"Ye  will   not  lose  your  wits  for  dear 

Lavaine : 
Bide,"  answer'd  he:    "we  needs  must 

hear  anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other."     "  Ay,"  she 

said, 
"  And  of  that  other,  fori  needs  must  hence 
And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be. 
And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  diamond 

to  him. 
Lest  1  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest 

to  me. 
Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my  dreams 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself. 
Death-pale,  for  lack  ofgentlemaiden'said. 
The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  more 

bound. 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye  know. 
When  these  have  worn  their  tokens  :  let 

me  hence 
I  pray  you."     Then  her  father  nodding 

said, 
"  Ay,  ay,  the  diamond :  wit  you  well,  my 

child. 
Right  fain  were  i  to  learn  this  knight 

were  whole. 
Being  our  greatest :  yea,  and  you  must 

give  it  — 
And  sure  1  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too  high 
For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a  Queen's — ■ 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing  :  so  then,  get  you 

gone. 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,  her.suitallow'd,  shesliptaway, 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her  ride. 
Her  father's  latest  word  humm'd  in  her  ear, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go," 
And  changed  itself  and  echoed  in  her 

heart, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die." 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shookitoff". 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us  ; 
And  in  her  heart  she  answer'd  it  and  said, 
' '  What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to 

life  ? " 
Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre  for  giaide 
Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 

downs 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


189 


Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 

For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of  flowers  : 

Whom  when  she  saw,  "Lavaine,"  she 
cried,  "  Lavaine, 

How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot  ? "  He 
amazed, 

*'  Torre  and  Elaine  !  why  here  ?  Sir  Lan- 
celot ! 

How  know  ye  mylord's  name  is  Lancelot  ? " 

But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her 
tale, 

Then  tiirn'd  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his 
moods 

Left  them,  and  under  the  strange-statued 
gate, 

Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd  mys- 
tically. 

Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin. 

His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at  Game- 
lot  ; 

And  her,  Lavaine  across  the  poplar  grove 

Led  to  the  caves  :  there  first  she  saw  the 
casque 

OfLancelotonthewall :  her  scarlet  sleeve, 

Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls 
away, 

Stream'd  from  it  still  ;  and  in  her  heart 
she  laugh' d. 

Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his  helm. 

But  meant  once  more  perchance  to  tour- 
ney in  it. 

And  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  in  which 
he  slept. 

His  baltle-writhen  arms  and  mighty 
hands 

Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a  dream 

Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them 
move. 

Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek, 
unshorn. 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself. 

Uttered  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 

The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 

Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he  roU'd 
his  eyes 

Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him, 
saying 

"Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by 
the  King  "  : 

His  eyes  glisten'd  :  she  fancied  "  is  it  for 
me  ? " 

And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the 
tale 

Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent, 
the  (luest 

Assign'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she  knelt 

Full  lowly  by  the  comers  of  his  bed, 


And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand. 
Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the  child 
That  does  ihe  task  assign'd,  he  kiss'd  her 

face. 
At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the  floor. 
"  Alas,"  he  said,  "  your  ride  has  wearied 

you. 
Rest  must  you  have."     "No  rest  for 

me,"  she  said  ; 
"Nay,  for  neai- you,  fair  lord,  I  am  at  rest." 
What  might  she  mean  by  that  ?  his  large 

black  eyes. 
Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon 

her, 
Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed  itself 
In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple  face  ; 
And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplext  in 

mind. 
And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more  ; 
But  did  not  love  the  color  ;  woman's  love. 
Save    one,     he    not    regai-ded,   and   so 

turn'd 
Sighing,  and  feign'd  a  sleep  until  he  slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro'  the 

fields. 
And  past  beneath  the  wildly-sculptured 

gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin  ; 
There  bode  the  night :   but  woke  with 

dawn,  and  past 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields, 
Thence  to  the  cave  :  so  day  by  day  she  past 
In  eitlier  twilight  ghost-Hke  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him. 
And  likewise  many  a  night :  and  Lancelot 
Would,  tho'  he  call'd  his  wound  a  little 

hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at 

times 
Brain-feverous  in  hisheatandagony,  seem 
Uncourteous,  even  he :  but  the  meek  maid 
Sweetly  forebore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse. 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child. 
And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first 

fall. 
Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep  love 
Uplrore  her  ;  till  the  hermit,  skill'd  in  all 
The  simjjles  and  the  science  of  that  time. 
Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  .saved  his 

life. 
And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple  blush. 
Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet 

Elaine, 
Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 
Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly. 


190 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINK 


Fun  lowly  by  the  comers  of 


And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the  love 
Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their 

best 
Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the 

death 
In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 
And  peradvcnture  had  ho  seen  her  first 
She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other 

world 
Another  world  for  the  sick  man  ;  but  now 
The  iliackles  of  an  old  love  straiten'd 

him, 
His  honor  rootod  in  dishonor  stood, 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Yet  the  great  knicht  in  his  mid-sick- 
ness made 
Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  resolve. 
These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could  not 

live  : 
For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him 

again, 
Full  often  the  sweet  image  of  one  face, 
flaking  a  treacherous  quift  in  his  heart. 
Dispelled  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 


Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly 

grace 
Beam'd  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  answer'd 

not. 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right 

well 
Vvliat  the  rough  sicknessmeant,  but  what 

this  meant 
She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm'd 

her  sight. 
And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the  fields 
Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 
She  murmur'd  "  vain,  in  vain  :  it  can- 
not be. 
He  will  not  love  me  :  how  then  ?  must 

I  die." 
Then  as  a  little  helpless,  innocent  bird, 
Tliat  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few  notes, 
Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
"Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "must 

I  die  ? " 
And  now  to  right  sho  tura'd,  and  now 

to  left, 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


191 


And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in  rest ; 
And    "  liim   or    death"   she   nmtter'd, 

'"death  or  him," 
Again  and  like  a  burthen,  "himordeath." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  deadly  hurt 

was  whole, 
To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three. 
Tluire  morn  by  mom,  an-aying  her  sweet 

self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd 

lier  best, 
She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she 

thought 
"  If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes, 
If  not,  the  victim's  llowers  before  he  fall." 
And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gifc  of 

him 
For  her  own  self  or  here ; ' '  and  do  not  shun 
To  speak  tlie  wish  most  dear  to  your 

true  heart ; 
Such  service  have  ye  done  me,  that  I 

make 
Mywillofyours,  andPrinceandLofrdaml 
In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I  can." 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face, 


But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  lo 

.speak. 
And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld  her 

wish. 
And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space 
Ti  1  he  should  learn  it ;  and  one  morn 

it  chanced 
He  found  lier  in  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  said,  ' '  Delay  no  longer,  speak  your 

wish. 
Seeing  I  must  go  to-day  "  :  then  out  slie 

brake  ; 
"Going  ?  andweshall  never  see  youmore. 
And  1  must  die  for  want  of  one  boUl  word. " 
"Speak  :  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said, 

"  is  yours." 
Then    suddenly   and   passionately   she 

spoke  : 
"  I  have  gone  mad.     I   love   you  :  let 

me  die." 
"  Ah,  sister,"  answer'd  Lancelot,  "  what 

is  this  ? " 
A  nd  in  nocently  extending  her  white  arms, 
"Your  love,"  she  said,  "your  love  —  to 

be  your  wife." 
And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "Had  I  chos'n 

to  wed. 


Then  suddenly  and  pauionately  she  spotte." 


192 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE, 


I  had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine  : 
But  now  there  ueverwill  be  wifeof  mine." 
"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "1  care  not  to  be 

wife. 
But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face, 
To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro'  the 

world." 
And    Lancelot    answer' d,     "Nay,    the 

world,  the  world, 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 
To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation  —  nay, 
Full  ill  then  should  1  quit  your  brother's 

love. 
And  your  good  father's  kindness. "   And 

she  said 
'  *  Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your  face  — 
Alas  for  me  then,  mygooddays  are  done." 
"Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answer' d,  "ten 

times  nay  ! 
This  is  not  love  :  but  love's  first  flash  in 

youth. 
Most  common  :  yea  I  know  it  of  mine 

own  self : 
And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own 

self 
Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower 

of  life 
To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your 

age: 
And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and 

sweet 
Bej'^ond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood. 
More  specially  should  your  good  knight 

be  poor. 
Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 
Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the  seas. 
So  that  would  make  you  happy  :  further- 
more, 
Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  ye  were  my 

blood. 
In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  yoiir  knight. 
This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your  sake. 
And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 

While  he  spoke 
She    neither    blush'd    nor    shook,    but 

deathly-pale 
Stood  gra.sping  what  was  nearest,  then 

replied  ; 
"  Of  all  this  will  T  nothing"  ;  and  so  fell, 
And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to  her 

tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those  black 
walls  of  yew 
Tlieir  talk  had  pierced,  her  father.   "  Ay, 
a  flash, 


I  fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom  dead. 
Too  courteous  are  you,  fair  Lord  Lancelot.  4 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion." 

Lancelot  said, 
"That  were  against  me  :  what  I  can  I 

will "  ; 
And  there  that  day  reniain'd,  and  tovv-ard 

even 
Sent  for  his  shield  :  full  meekly  rose  the 

maid, 
Stript  off"  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 

shield  ; 
Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon 

the  stones. 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and 

look'd 
Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her  sleeve 

had  gone. 
And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking 

sound  ; 
And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking 

at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved 

his  hand. 
Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 
This  was  theone  discourtesy  that  he  used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat : 
His  very  shield  was  gone  ;  only  the  case, 
Herown  poor  work,  her  empty  labor,  left. 
But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture 

form'd 
And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured 

wall. 
Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low  tones 
"Have    comfort,"    whom    she    greeted 

quietly. 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  "  Peace 

to  thee 
Sweet  sister,"  whom  she  answer'd  with 

all  calm. 
But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again. 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant 

field 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  call'd ; 

the  owls 
Wailing  had  poweruponher,  and.shemixt 
Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  moaningsof  the  wind. 

Andinthosedaysshemadealittle  song, 
And  call'd  her  song  "The  Song  of  Love 

and  Death," 
And  sang  it :   sweetly  could  she  make 

and  sing. 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


193 


"  Sweet  is  true  love  tho'  given  in  vain, 
in  vain  ; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 

"Love,  art  thou  sweet?  then  bitter 
death  must  be  : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 

"  Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to 
fade  away. 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  love- 
less clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could 

be; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for 

me  ; 
Call  and  1  follow,  I  follow  !  let  me  die." 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her  voice, 

and  this. 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That  shook  her  tower,  the  brothers  heard, 

and  thought 
With  shuddering  "  Hark  the  Phantom 

of  the  house 
That  ever  shrieks  before  a  death,"  and 

call'd 
The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and  fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo  !  the  blood-red  light  of 

dawn 
Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling  "Let 

me  die  !  " 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we 
know 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 
Becomes  a  wonder  and  we  know  not  why, 
So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face  and  thought 
"Is  this  Elaine?"  till  back  the  maiden 

fell. 
Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and  lay. 
Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her 

eyes. 
At  last  she  said  "  Sweet  brothers,  yester- 
night 
I  .seem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again. 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the 

woods, 
And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with  the 

flood 
Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's  boat. 
Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it :  there  ye  fixt 


Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 
And  yet  I  cried  because  ye  would  not  pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  king. 
And  yet  ye  would  not ;  but  this  night 

I  dream'd 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 
And  then  I  said  "Now  shall  I  have  my 

will "  : 
And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish  re- 

main'd. 
So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood. 
Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  king. 
There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all. 
And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at  me ; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder  at 

me. 
And  there  the  gi-eat  Sir  Lancelot  muse  at 

me  ; 
Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  farewells 

tome, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went  nor  bade  me 

one  : 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and 

my  love, 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity  me, 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome  me, 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest ! " 

' '  Peace,  "said  her  father,  ' '  0  my  child, 

ye  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours  to  go. 
So  far,  being  sick  ?  and  wherefore  would 

ye  look 
On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns  us 

all  ? " 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave 

and  move. 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say 
"  1  never  loved  him  :  an  I  meet  with  him, 
I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be. 
Then  will  1  strike  at  him  and  strike  him 

down, 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him 

dead, 
For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the 

house." 

To  which  the  gentle  sister  made  reply, 
"Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor  be 

wroth. 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the 

highest." 


194 


LAKCfiLOT  AND  ELAINE. 


"Highest?"    the    Father    answer'd, 

echoing  "highest?" 
(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her) 

"nay, 
Daughter,  I  know  not  what  you  call  the 

highest ; 
But  this  1  know,  for  all  the  people  know  it, 
He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open  shame  : 
And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame. 
If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low  ?  " 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat ; 
"  Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am  I 
For  anger:  these  are  slanders  :  never  yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a 

foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain  :  so  let  me 

pass. 
My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you, 
Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's  best 
And  greatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no  return  : 
Yet,  seeing  ye  desire  your  child  to  live. 
Thanks,  but  ye  work  against  your  own 

desire  ; 
For  if  1  could  believe  the  things  ye  say 
I  should  but  die  the  sooner  ;  wherefore 

cease. 
Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly  man 
Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean,  and 

die." 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come 

and  gone. 
She  with  a  face,  bright  as  for  sin  forgiven. 
Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she  devised 
A  letter,  word  for  word ;  and  when  he 

ask'd 
"  Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  itfor  my  dearlord  ? 
Then  will  1  bear  it  gladly  "  ;  she  replied, 
"  For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all 

the  world. 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it."    Then  he 

wrote 
The  letter  she  devised  ;  which  being  writ 
And  folded,  "  0  sweet  father,  tender  and 

true. 
Deny  me  not,"  she  said  —  "ye  never  yet 
Denied    my    fancies  —  this,     however 

strange. 
My  latest :  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it ;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death. 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my 

heart. 
Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  1  died 


For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like  the 

Queen's 
For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  1  have  of  rich,  and  lay  nie  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot-bier 
To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There  surely  1  shall  speak  for  mine  own 

self. 
And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so  well. 
And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man  alone 
Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row,  and  he 
AVill  giiide   me  to  that   palace,  to  the 

doors." 

She    ceased :     her  father    promised ; 

whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem'd 

her  death 
Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood. 
But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on  the 

eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she  died. 
So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from 

underground, 
Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with 

bent  brows 
Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Past  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that 

shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the 

barge, 
Pall'd  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite, 

lay. 
There  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the 

house. 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck, 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his  lace. 
So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot 

took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her 

bed. 
Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazonings. 
And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying 

to  her 
"  Sister,  farewell  for  ever,"  and  again 
"Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  in 

tears. 
Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the 

dead 
Steer' d  by  the  dumb  went  upward  Tidth 

the  flood  — 


LANCELOT   AND    ELAINE. 


195 


■  1  hen  roiO  the  auiub  old  servitor,  and  the  dead 
Steer'd  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with  the  flood." 


In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter  —  all  her  bright  hair  stream- 
ing down  — 
And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in 

white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured 

face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  the'  she  smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace 

craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly  gift, 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise 

and  blow, 
With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his 

own, 
The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds  :  for 

he  saw 
Oneofherhouse,andsenthim  to  the  Queen 
Bearing  his  wish,    whereto   the   Queen 

agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seem'd  her  statue,  but 

that  he, 
Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kiss'd  her 

feet 
For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  a  piece  of  pointed  lace. 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the 

walls, 
And    parted,   laughing   in  his  courtly 

heart. 


All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side. 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward  the 

stream. 
They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  utter' d, 

"Queen, 
Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  my  joy, 
Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for  you. 
These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy,  making 

them 
An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth, 
Or  necklace  for  a  neck  to  which  the  swan's 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's  :  these  are 

words  : 
Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
In  speaking,  yet  0  grant  my  worship  of  it 
Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.    Such  sin 

in  words 
Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon  :  but,  my 

Queen, 
I  hear  of  rumors  flying  thro'  your  court. 
Ourbond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife, 
Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To  make  up  that  defect :  let  rumors  be  : 
When  did  not  rumors  fly  ?  these,  as  I  trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half  tum'd  away, 

the  Queen 

Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering  vin  e 

Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  thoni  off. 

Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was 

green  ; 
Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold  pas- 
sive hand 


196 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems 
There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied. 

"  It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the  Lake. 
Our  bond  isnot  the  bond  of  man  and  wife. 
This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  ill, 
It  can  be  broken  easier.     I  for  you 
This  many  a  year  have  done  despite  and 

wrong 
To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  did  acknowledge  nobler.     What  are 

these  I 
Diamonds  for  me  !  they  had  been  thrice 

their  worth 
Bt'ingyourgift,  had  you  not  lost  your  own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.     Not  for  me  ! 
For  her  !  for  your  new  fancy.    Only  this 
Grant  me,  I  pray  you  :  have  your  joys 

apart. 
I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  j'ou 

keep 
So  much  of  what  is  graceful :  and  myself 
Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of 

courtesy 
In  which  as  Arthur's  queen  I  move  and 

rule  : 
So  cannot  speak  my  mind.  An  end  to  this  ! 
A  strange  one  !  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 
So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her 

pearls  ; 
Deck  her  with  these  ;  tell  her  she  shines 

me  down : 
An  armlet  for  an  aim  to  which  the  Queen's 
Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 
0  as  much  fairer  —  as  a  faith  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds  —  hers 

not  mine  — 
Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himself, 
Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my 

will  — 
She  shall  not  have  them." 

Saying  which  she  seized. 
And,  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide 

for  heat. 
Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash' d,  and 

smote  the  stream. 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd,  as 

it  were. 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past 

away. 
Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half 

disgust 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window 

ledge. 
Close  imdemeath  his  eyes,  and  right  across 


Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past  the 

barge 
W^hereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not,  burst 

away 
To  weepand  wail  in  secret ;  andthebarge, 
Onto  the  palace-doorway  sliding,  paused. 
There  two  stood  arm'd,   and  kept  the 

door ;  to  whom, 
All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier, 
Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes 

that  ask'd 
"  What  is  it  ? "  but  that  oarsman's  hag- 
gard face. 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken 

rocks 
On  some  cliff"-side,  appall'd  them,  and 

they  said, 
"He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  —  and 

she. 
Look  how  she  sleeps  —  the  Faiiy  Queen, 

so  fair  ! 
Yea,   but  how  pale  !   what  are  they  ? 

flesh  and  blood  ? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  fairy  land  ? 
For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot  die, 
But  that  he  passes  into  fairy  land." 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King, 

the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights  :   then   tum'd 

the  tongueless  man 
From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye,  and  rose 
And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the  doors. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid ; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  wonder'd 

at  her, 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at  her, 
And  last  theQueen  herself  and  pitied  her  : 
But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and   read  it ; 

this  was  all. 

"Most  noble  lord.  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 

Lake, 
I,  sometime  call'd  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  farewell, 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 
I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return. 
And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been  my 

death. 
And  therefore  to  our  lady  Guinevere, 


-r4 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


197 


And.  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too,  Sir  Lancelot, 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 

Thus  he  read. 
And  ever  in  the  reading,  lords  and  dames 
W  ept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who  read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at  times. 
So  touch'd  were  they,  half-thinking  that 

her  lips. 
Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them 

all; 
"My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that 

hear, 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's 

death 
Right  heavy  am  I  ;  for  good  she  was  and 

true, 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all  love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again  ; 
Not  at  my  years,   however  it  hold   in 

youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I 

gave 
No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a  love  : 
To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony,' 
Her  brethren,  and  herfather,  who  himself 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt,  and 

use. 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 
Against  my  nature  :  what  I  could,  I  did. 
I  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell. 
Tho',  had  1  dreamt   the  damsel  would 

have  died, 
I  might  have  put  my  wits  to  some  rough 

use. 
And  help'd  her  from  herself." 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after 

storm) 
"  Ye  might  at   lea.st  have  done  her  so 

much  grace. 
Fair  lord,  as  would  have  help'd  her  from 

her  death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and 

hers  fell, 
He  adding, 

"Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save   that  I  wedded  her,  which   could 

not  be. 
Then  mightshe  follawme  thro'  the  world, 

she  ask'd  ; 


It  could  not  be.     I  told  her  that  her  love 
Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would  dark- 
en down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her  —  then 

would  I, 
More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded,  poor. 
Estate  them  with  large  land  and  territory 
In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow 

seas, 
To  keep  them  in  all  joyance  :  more  than 

this 
I  could  not ;  this  she  would  not,  and  she 
died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer'd,  "  0  my 

knight, 

It  will  be  to  thy  worship,  as  my  knight. 

And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table  Round, 

To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfully." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in  all 
the  realm 
Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 
The  marshall'd  order  of  their  Table  Round, 
And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 
The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown. 
Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies. 
And  mass,   and  rolling  music,    like  a 

Queen. 
And  when   the   knights  had  laid  her 

comely  head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings, 
Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  "  Let 
her  tomb  , 

Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon. 
And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her  feet 
Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 
And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
For  all  tme  hearts  be  blazon'd  on  her  tomb 
In  letters  gold  and  azure  ! "  which  was 

wrought 
Thereafter  ;  but  when  now  the  lords  and 

dames 
And  people,  from  the  high  door  stream- 
ing, brake 
Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 
Who   mark'd   Sir    Lancelot   where    he 

moved  apart. 
Drew  near,  and  sigh'd in  passing  "Lance- 
lot, 
Forgive  me  ;  mine  was  jealousy  in  love." 
He  answer'd   with   his   eyes   upon   the 

ground, 
"That   is  love's   cmrse  ;    pa.ss  on,    my 

Queen,  forgiven." 
But  Arthur  who  beheld  his  cloudy  brows 


198 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


Approach'd  him,  and  with  full  affection 

Hung 
One  arm  about  his  neck,  and  spake  and 

said. 

"Lancelot,    my    Lancelot,    thou   in 

whom  I  have 
Most  love  and  most  affiance,  for  I  know 
What  thou  hast  been  iu  battle  by  my  side, 
And  many  a  time  have  watched  thee  at 

the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-practised 

knight, 
And  let  tlie  younger  and  unskill'd  go  by 
To  mu  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name, 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a  man 
Made  to  be   loved ;   but  now  I  would 

to  God, 
For  the  wild  people  say  wild  things  of 

thee, 
Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden, 

shaped,  it  seems. 
By  God  lor  thee  alone,  and  from  her  face. 
If  one  may  judge  the  livinffby  the  dead. 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair. 
Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a 

lonely  man 
Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and  fame. 
My  knight,  the  gi-eat  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 

Lake." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,   "  Fair  she 

was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to  be. 
To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an  eye. 
To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a 

heart  — 
Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not 

be  bound." 

"  Free  love,  so  bound,  were   freest," 

said  the  Kins;. 
"Let  love  bo  free ;  free  love  is  for  the  best : 
And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of 

death, 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a  love 
Clothed  in  so  pure  a  loveliness  ?  yet  thee 
She  fail'd  to  bind,  tho'  being,  as  I  think, 
Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I  know." 

And  Lancelot  answer'd  nothing,  but 
he  went. 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove,  and  watch'd 
The  lugbjeed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes 


And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her  m«v- 

ing  down, 
Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said 
Low  in  himself  "All  simple  heart  and 

sweet. 
Ye  loved  me,    damsel,    surely  with  a 

love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.     Pray  for 

thy  soul  ? 
Ay,  that  will  1.     Farewell  too  —  now  at 

last  — 
Farewell,  fair  lily.     '  Jealousy  in  love '  ? 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  jealous 

pride  ? 
Queen,  if  I  grant  the  jealousy  as  of  love. 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name  and 

fame 
Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a  love  that  wanes  ? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  to 

me? 
Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a 

reproach, 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
Stole  from  his  mother  —  as  the   story 

runs  — 
She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious  song 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and 

mom 
She  kiss'd  me  saying  thou  art  fair,  my 

child. 
As  a  king's  son,  and  often  in  her  arms 
She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere. 
Would  she  had  drown'd  me  in  it,  where'er 

it  be! 
For  what  am  I  ?    what  profits  me  my 

name 
Of  greatest  knight  ?   I  fought  for  it,  and 

have  it : 
Pleasure  to  have  it,  none ;  to  lose  it,  pain ; 
Now  grown  a  part  of  me  :  but  what  use 

in  it  ? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin 

known  ? 
Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming  great  ? 
Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart  !  I  needs  must 

break 
These  bonds  that  so  defame  me  :  not  with- 
out 
She  wills  it :  would  I,  if  she  will'd  it  ?  nay, 
Who  knows  ?  but  if  I  would  not,  then 

may  God, 
I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me  b}'  the  hair  and  bear  me  far. 
And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere. 
Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the 

hills." 


^ 


I  THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


199 


So  groan'd  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful 
pain, 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

From  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of  prowess 

done 
In  tournament  or  tilt.  Sir  Percivale, 
Whom  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  call'd 

The  Pure, 
Had  pass'd  into  the  silent  life  of  prayer. 
Praise,  fast,  and  alms ;  and  leaving  for 

the  cowl 
The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 
From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long  after, 

died. 

And  one,  a  fellow-monk  among  the  rest, 
Ambrosius,  loved  him  much  beyond  the 

rest, 
And  honor'd  him,  and  wrought  into  his 

heart 
A  way  by  love  that  waken'd  love  within, 
To  answer  that  which  came  :  and  as  they 

sat 
Beneath  a  world-old  yew-tree,  darkening 

half 
The  cloisters,  on  a  gustful  April  morn 
That  pufTd  the  swaying  branches  into 

smoke 
Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when  he  died. 
The  monk  Ambrosius  question'd  Perci- 
vale : 

"  0  brother,  I  have  seen  this  yew-tree 

smoke, 
Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a  hundred 

years  : 
For  never  have  1  known  the  world  without, 
Noreverstray'd  beyond  the  pale  :  butthee, 
When  first  thou  earnest  — such  a  courtesy 
Spake  thro'  the  limbs  and  in  the  voice  — 

I  knew 
For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur's  hall ; 
Forgood  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to  coins, 
Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one  of  you 
Stamp'd  with  the  image  of  the  King  ;  and 

now 
Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the  Table 

Round, 
My  brother  ?  was  it  earthly  passion  crost  ? " 

"Nay,"  said  the  knight ;  "for  no  such 
passion  mine. 
But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Holy  Grail 


Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rivalries, 
And  earthly  heats  that  spring  and  sparkle 

out 
Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  women 

watch 
Who  wins,   who   falls  ;    and  waste  the 

spiritual  strength 
Within  us,  better  ort'erd  up  to  Heaven." 

To   whom   the   monk:     "The   Holy 

Grail !  —  I  trust 
We  are  green  in  Heaven's  eyes  ;  but  here 

too  much 
We  moulder  —  as  to  things  without   1 

mean  — 
Yet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a  guest  of 

ours, 
Told  us  of  this  in  our  refectory, 
But  spake  with  such  a  sadness  and  so  low 
We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said.  What 

is  it? 
The  phantom  of  a  cup  that  comes  and 

goes  ? " 

"Nay,  monk!  what  phaiiom?"  an- 
swer'd  Percivale. 
"  The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which  our 

Lord 
Drank  at  the  last  sad  supperwith  hisown. 
Thi?,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aromat  — 
After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the  dead 
Went  wandering  o'er  Moriah  —  the  good 

saint, 
Arimathaean  Joseph,  journeying  brought 
To  Glastonbuiy,  where  the  winter  thorn 
Blossoms  at  Christmas,  mindful  of  our 

Lord. 
And  there  awhile  it  bode  ;  and  if  a  man 
Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal'd  at  once, 
Byfaith,  ofallhisills.  But  then  the  times 
Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 
Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and  disap- 
pear'd." 

To  whom  the  monk  :  "From  our  old 

books  I  know 
That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glastonbury, 
And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arviragus, 
Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to 

build  ; 
And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from  the 

marsh 
A  little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 
For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours,  but 

seem 
Mute  of  this  miracle,  fur  as  I  have  read. 
But  whofirstsaw  the  holy  thing  to-d^y  ?" 


200 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


"A  woman,"  answer'd  Percivale,  "a 

nun, 
And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from  me 
Than  sister  ;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 
With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the  stone, 
A  hoi)'  maid  ;  tho'  never  maiden  glow'd, 
But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maidenhood. 
With  such  a  fervent  Hanie  of  human  love. 
Which  being  rudely  blunted,  glanced  and 

shot 
Only  to  holy  things  ;  to  prayer  and  praise 
She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms.     And 

yet. 

Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the  Court, 
Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table  Kound, 
And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulterous 

race, 
Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 
Beat,  and  she  pray'd  and  fasted  all  the 

more. 

"And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins, 

or  what 
Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for  sin, 
A  man  wellnigh  a  hundred  winters  old. 
Spake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
A  legend  handed  down  thro'  five  or  six, 
And  each  of  these  a  hundred  winters  old. 
From  our  Lord's  time.     And  when  King 

Arthur  made 
His  Table  Round,  and  all  men's  hearts 

became 
Clean  for  a  season,  surely  he  had  thought 
That  now   the  Holy  Grail  would  come 

again  ; 
But  sin  broke  out.     Ah,  Christ,  that  it 

would  come. 
And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wicked- 
ness ! 
'  O  Father ! '  asked  the  maiden,  '  might 

it  come 
To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  ? '     '  Nay,' 

said  he, 
'  I   know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as 

snow.' 
And  so  she  pray'd  and  fasted,  till  the  sun 
Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro'  her,  and 

I  thought 
She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when  I 

saw  her. 

"  For  on  a  day  she  sent  to  speak  with 

me. 
And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold  her 

eyes 
Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beautiful, 
Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  vonderijil. 


Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 

And  'Omy  brother,  Percivale,'  she  said, 

'  Sweet  brother,   I  have  seen  the  -Holy 

Grail  : 
For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,!  heard  a  sound 
As  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hills 
Blown,  and  1  thought,  "  It  is  not  Arthur's 

use 
To  hunt  by  moonlight "  ;  andthe  slender 

sound 
As  from  a  distance  beyond  distance  grew 
Coming  upon  me  —  0  never  harp  nor 

horn. 
Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or  touch 

with  hand, 
Was  like  that  music  as  it  came  ;  and  then 
Stream'd  thro'  my  cell  a  cold  and  silver 

beam, 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy 

Grail, 
Eose-red  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if  alive. 
Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were  dyed 
With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wall  ; 
And  then  the  music  faded,  andthe  Grail 
Pass'd,  and  the  beam  decay'd,  and  from 

the  walls 
The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the  night. 
So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 
Among  us,   brother,  fast  thou  too  and 

pray. 
And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast  and 

pray. 
That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be  seen 
By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world  be 

heal'd.' 

"Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I  spake 
of  tliis 
To  all  men  ;  and  myselffa.sted  and  pray'd 
Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a  week 
Fasted  and  pray'd  even  to  the  uttermost. 
Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would  be. 

"And  one  there  was  among  us,  ever 
moved 

Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad. 

'  God  make  thee  good  as  thou  art  beau- 
tiful,' 

Said  Arthur,  when  he  dubb'd  him  knight ; 
and  none. 

In  so  youngyouth,  was  ever  made  aknight 

Till  Galahad  ;  and  this  Galahad,  when 
he  heard 

My  sister's  vision,  fill'd  me  with  amaze  ; 

His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they 

seem'd  ^ 

Hers,  andhimselfherbrothermorethan  I. 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


201 


"  Sister  or  brother  none  had  he  ;  but 

some 
Call'd  him  a  son  of  Lancelot,  and  some 

said 
Begotten   by   enchantment  —  chatterers 

they, 
Like  birds  of  passage  piping  up  and  down. 
That  gape  for  flies  —  we  know  not  whence 

they  come  ; 
For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderingly  lewd  ? 

' '  But  she,  the  wan  sweet  maiden  shore 

away 
Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that  wealth 

of  hair 
Which  made  a  silken  mat -work  for  her 

feet  ; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and  long 
A  strong  sword-belt,  and  wove  with  silver 

thread 
And  crimson  in  the  belt  a  strange  device, 
A  crimson  grail  within  a  silver  beam  ; 
And  saw  the  bright  boy-knight,  and  bound 

it  en  him. 
Saying,  *  My  knight,  my  love,  ray  knight 

of  heaven, 
0  thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one  with 

mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind  my 

belt. 
Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I  have 

seen. 
And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown 

thee  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city' :  and  as  she  spake 
She  sent  the  deathless  passion  in  her  eyes 
Thro'  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and  laid 

her  mind 
On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

'*  Then   came  a  year  of  miracle :   0 

brother, 
In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a  vacant  chair, 
Fashion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away. 
And  carven  with  strange  figures  ;  and  in 

and  out 
The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll 
Of  letters  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  read. 
And  Merlin  call'd  it  'The  Siege  perilous,' 
Perilous  for  good  and  ill;    'for  there,' 

he  said, 
'No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose 

himself* : 
And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat 
In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost ;  but  he, 
Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin's  doom, 
Cried,  '  if  I  lose  myself  I  save  myself  ! ' 


"  Then  on  a  summer  night  it  came  to 

pass. 
While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the 

hall. 
That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Merlin's 

chair. 

"And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat,  we 

heard 
A  cracking  and  a  riving  of  the  roofs, 
And  rending,  and  a  blast,  and  overliead 
Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a  cry. 
And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the  hall 
A  beam  of  light  seven  times  more  clear 

than  day  : 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy 

Grail 
All  over  cover'd  with  a  luminous  cloud. 
And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and  it 

past. 
But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow's  face 
As  in  a  glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose. 
And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb  men 
Stood,  till  I  found  a  voice  and  sware  a 


"I  sware  a  vow  before  them  all,  that  I, 
Because  I  had  not  seen  the  Grail,  would 

ride 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day  in  quest  of  it. 
Until  1  found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 
My  sister  saw  it ;  and  Galahad  sware  the 

vow. 
And  good  Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot's  cousin, 

sware, 
And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among 

the  knights. 
And  Gawain  sware,  and  louder  than  the 

rest."  * 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius,  ask- 
ing him, 
"What  said  the  King  ?  Did  Arthur  take        , 
the  vow  ? " 

"Nay,  for  my  lord,"  said  Percivale, 

"  the  king. 
Was  not  in  hall  :  for  early  that  same  day. 
Scaped  thro'  a  cavern  from  a  bandit  hold. 
An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the  hall 
Crying  on  help  :  for  all  her  shining  hair 
Was  smear'd  with  earth,  and  either  milky 

arm 
Red-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and  all 

she  wore 
Tom  as  a  sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is  torn 
In  tempest  :  so  the  king  arose  and  went 


202 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those 

wild  bees 
That  made  such  honey  in   his  realm. 

Howbeit 
Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw, 
Betuniing  o'er  the  plain  that  then  began 
To  darken  under  Camelot ;  whence  the 

king 
Look'd  up,  calling  aloud,  '  Lo  there  !  the 

roofs 
Of  our  great  hall  are  rolled  in  thunder- 
smoke  ! 
Pray  Heaven,  they  be  not  smitten  by 

the  bolt.' 
For  dear  to  Aithur  was  that  hall  of  ours. 
As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his  knights 
Feasted,    and   as   the    stateliest    under 

heaven. 

"0  brother,  hadyouknownourraighty 

hall, 
Which  Merlin  built  for  Arthur  long  ago  ! 
For  all  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 
And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by  roof. 
Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire, 
By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rushing 

brook. 
Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin 

built. 
And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set 

betwixt 
With  many  a  mystic  symbol,  gird  the 

hall : 
And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying  men. 
And  in  the  second  men  are  slaying  beasts, 
And  on  the  third  are  warrioi-s,  perfect  men, 
And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  growing 

wings. 
And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 
Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  with  a  crown. 
And  peak'd  wings  pointed  to  the  Northern 

Star. 
And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and  the 

crown 
And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold, 

and  flame 
At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far  fields. 
Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen  hordes. 
Behold  it,  crying,  '  We  have  still  a  king.' 

"And,  brother,  had  you  known  our 

hall  within, 
Broader  and  higher  than  any  in  all  the 

lands ! 
Where    twelve  great    windows    blazon 

Arthur's  wars. 
And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the  board 


Streams  thro'  the  twelve  great  battles  of 

our  King. 
Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern 

end, 
Wealthy  with  wandering  lines  of  mount 

and  mere. 
Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand,  Excalibur. 
And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter 

to  it. 
And  blank  :   and  who  shall  blazon  it  ? 

when  and  how  ?  — 
0  there,  perchance,  when  all  our  wars 

are  done. 
The  brand  Excalibur  will  be  cast  away. 

"  So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode  the 

King, 
In  horror  lest  the  work  by  Merlin  wrought, 
Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  vanish, 

wrapt 
In  unreraorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 
And  in  he  I'ode,  and  up  I  glanced,  and  saw 
The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over  all : 
And  many  of  those  who  burnt  the  hold, 

their  arms 
Hack'd,  and  their  foreheads  grimed  with 

smoke,  and  sear'd, 
FoUow'd,  and  in  amongbright  faces,  ours, 
Full  of  the  vision,  prest :  and  then  the 

King 
Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  '  Percivale,' 
{ Because  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult  —  some 
Vowing,  and  some  protesting),  '  what  is 

this  ? ' 

"0  brother,  when  I  told  him  what 

had  chanced. 
My  sister's  vision,  and  the  rest,  his  face 
Darken'd,  as  I  have  seen  it  more  than 

once. 
When  some  brave  deed  seem' d  to  be  done 

in  vain. 
Darken  ;  and  '  Woe  is  me,  my  knights,' 

he  cried, 

*  Had  I  been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn  the 

vow.' 
Bold  was  mine   answer,   '  Had  thj'self 

been  here. 
My  King,  thou   wouldst   have   sworn.' 

'Yea,  yea,'  said  he, 

*  Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen  the 

Grail?' 

"  '  Nay,  Lord,  I  heard  the  sound,  I 
saw  the  light. 
But  since  I  did  not  see  the  Holy  Thing, 
I  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  I  saw.' 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


203 


"Then  when  he  asked  us,  knight  by 

knight,  if  any 
Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  asone : 
'  Nay,  Lord,  and  therefore  have  we  sworn 

our  vows.' 

"  '  Lo  now,'   said  Arthur,   'have  ye 
seen  a  cloud  ? 
What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to  see  ? ' 

"Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and 
in  a  voice 
Shrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur,  call'd, 
'  But  I,  Sir  Arthur,  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
I  saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a  ciy  — 
0  Galahad,  and  0  Galahad,  follow  me.' 

"  '  Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,'  said  the 

King,  '  for  such 
As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for  these. 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a  sign  — 
Holier  is  none,  my  Percivale,  than  she  — 
A  sign  to  maim  this  Order  which  I  made. 
But  you,  that  follow  but  the  leader's  bell' 
(Brother,  the  King  was  hard  upon  his 

knights) 
'  Taliesiin  is  our  fullest  throat  of  song. 
And  one  hath  sung  and  all  the  dumb  will 

sing. 
Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  overborne 
Five  knights  at  once,  and  every  younger 

knight, 
Unproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 
Till  overborne  by  one,  he  leanis — and  ye. 
What  are  ye  ?   Galahads  ?  —  no,  nor  Per- 

civales ' 
(For  thus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range 

me  close 
After  Sir  Galahad)  ;  '  nay,'  said  he,  '  but 

.    men 
With  strength  and   will  to   right  the 

wrong'd,  of  power 
To  lay  the  sudden  heads  of  violence  flat. 
Knights   that   in   twelve   great    battles 

splash'd  and  dyed 
The  strong  White   Horse   in   his  own 

h;.»athen  blood  — 
But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind  will 

see. 
Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred,  being 

made : 
Yet  —  for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my 

realm 
Pass  thro'  this  hall  —  how  often,  0  my 

knights, 
Your  places  being  vacant  at  my  side, 
This  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come  and  go 


Unchallenged,  while  you  follow  wander- 
ing fires 
Lost  in  the  quagmire  ?     Many  of  you, 

yea  most. 
Return  no  more  :  ye  think  I  show  myself 
Too  dark  a  prophet  :  come  now,  let  us 

meet 
The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one  full 

field 
Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once  more  the 

King, 
Before  you  leave  him  for  this  Quest,  may 

count 
The   yet-unbroken   strength   of  all   his 

knights, 
Rejoicing  in  that  Order  which  he  made.' 

"So  when  the  sun  broke  next  from 

under  ground. 
All  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur  closed 
And  clash'd  in  such  a  tourney  and  so  full, 
So  many  lances  broken  —  never  yet 
Had  Camelot  seen  the  like,  since  Arthur 

came. 
And  I  myself  and  Galahad,  for  a  strength 
Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 
So  many  knights  that  all  the  people  cried. 
And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their 

heat. 
Shouting  'Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Percivale ! ' 

"  But  when  the  next  day  brake  from 

under  ground  — 
0  brother,  ha  1  you  known  our  Camelot, 
Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so  old 
The  King  himself  had  fears  that  it  would 

fall. 
So  strange,  and  rich,  and  dim  ;  for  where 

the  roofs 
Totter'd  toward  each  other  in  the  sky, 
Met  foreheads  all  along  the  street  of  those 
Who  watch'd  us  pass  ;  aud  lower,  and 

where  the  long 
Rich  galleries,  lady-laden,  weigh'd  the 

necks 
Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls, 
Thicker  than  drops  from  thunder,  show- 
ers of  flowers 
Fell  as  we  past ;  and  men  and  boys  astride 
On  wyvern,  lion,  dragon,  griffin,  swan, 
Atall  the  corners,  named  useachby  name, 
Calling  '  God  speed  ! '  but  in  the  street 

below 
The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich  and 

])oor 
Wept,  and  the  King  himself  could  hardly 

speak 


204 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


For  grief,  and  in  the  middle  street  the 
Queen, 

Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail'd  and  shriek'd 
aloud, 

'  This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our 
sins.' 

And  then  we  reach'd  the  weirdly-sculp- 
tured gate. 

Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd  mys- 
tically. 

And  thence  departed  every  one  his  way. 

"And  I  was  lifted  up  in  heart,  and 

thought 
Of  all  my  late-shown  prowess  in  the  lists, 
How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  down 

the  knights. 
So  many andfamous names ;  andneveryet 
Had  heaven  appear' d  so  blue,  nor  earth 

so  green, 
For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I  knew 
That  1  should  light  upon  the  Holy  Grail. 

"  Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of  our 

King, 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering 

fires. 
Came  like   a  driving  gloom  across  my 

mind. 
Then  every  evil  word  I  had  spoken  once. 
And  every  evil  thought  I  had  thought 

of  old. 
And  every  evil  deed  I  ever  did, 
Awoke  and  cried,  '  This  Quest  is  not  for 

thee.' 
And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I  found  myself 
Alone,  and  in  a  laud  of  sand  and  thorns, 
And  I  was  thirsty  even  unto  death  ; 
And  I,  too,  cried,  'This  Quest  is  not  for 

thee.' 

"  And  on  I  rode,  and  when  I  thought 
my  thirst 

Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lawns,  and  then 
a  brook. 

With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisp- 
ing white 

Play'd  ever  back  upon  the  sloping  wave. 

And  took  both  ear  and  eye  ;  and  o'er  the 
brook 

Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the  brook 

Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns.  '  I  will  rest 
here,' 

I  said,  '  1  am  not  worthy  of  the  Quest '  ; 

But  even  while  I  drank  the  brook,  and 
ate 

The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at  once 


Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 
And  thirsting,  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns. 

"  And  then  behold  a  woman  at  a  door 
Spinning ;  and  fair  the  house  whereby 

she  sat, 
And  kind  the  woman's  eyes  andinnocent. 
And  all  her  bearing  gracious  ;  and  she 

rose 
Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who 

should  say, 
'  Rest  here '  ;  but  when  I  touched  her, 

lo  !  she,  too, 
Fell   into   dust   and   nothing,   and   the 

house 
Became  no  better  than  a  broken  shed, 
And  in  it  a  dead  babe  ;  and  aLso  this 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

"And  on  I  rode,  and  greater  was  mj 

thirst. 
Then  flash'd  a  yellow  gleam  across  the 

world. 
And  where  it  smote  the  ploughshare  in  the 

field, 
The  ploughman  left  his  ploughing,  and 

lell  down 
Before  it ;  where  it  glitter'd  on  her  pail, 
The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and  fel! 

down 
Before  it,  and  I  knew  not  why,  butthoughl 
'  The  sun  is  rising,'  tho'  the  sunhad  risen, 
Then  was  I  ware  of  one  that  on  me  mo  vet 
In  golden  armor  with  a  crown  of  gold 
About  a  casque  all  jewels  ;  and  his  hors( 
In  golden  armor  jewell'd  everywhere  : 
And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing  mc 

blind  ; 
And  seem'd  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  th( 

world. 
Being  so  huge.     But  when  I  thought  h( 

meant 
To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo  !  he,  too 
Opened  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  Ik 

came. 
And  up  I  went  and  touch'd  him,  and  he 

too. 
Fell  into  (lust,  and  I  was  left  alone 
And  wearying  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns 

"And  I  rode  on  and  found  a  mights 

hill. 
And  on  the  top,  a  city  wail'd  :  the  spire 
Prick'd   with  incredible  pinnacles   inti 

heaven. 
And  by  the  gateway  stirr'd  a  crowd  ;  an( 

these 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


2Q5 


Cried  to  me  climbing,   'Welcome,  Per- 

civale ! 
Thou  mightiest  and  thou  purest  among 

men  ! ' 
And  glad  was  I  and  clomb,  but  found  at 

top 
Noman,  nor  any  voice.  And  thence  I  past 
Far  thro'  a  ruinous  city,  and  I  saw 
That  man  had  once  dwelt  there ;   but 

there  I  found 
Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 
'  Where  is  that  goodly  company,'  said  I, 
'That  so   cried  out  upon  me?'  and  he 

had 
Scarce  any  voice  to  answer,  and  yet  gasp'd 
'  Whence  and  what  art  thou  ? '  and  even 

as  he  spoke 
Fell  into  dust,  and  disappear'd,  and  1 
Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried  in 

giief, 
'  Lo,  if  I  find  the  Holy  Grail  itself 
And  touch  it,  it  will  crumble  into  dust.' 

"  And  thence  I  dropt  into  a  lowly  vale, 
Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where  the 

vale 
Was  lowest,  found  a  chapel  and  thereby 
A  holy  hermit  in  a  hermitage, 
To  whom  I  told  my  phantoms,  and  he  said  : 

"  '  0  son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility, 
The  highest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all ; 
For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made 

Himself 
Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
"  Take  thou  my  robe,"  she  said,  "for  all 

is  thine," 
And  all  her  fonn  shone  forth  with  sud- 
den light 
So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and  she 
FoUow'd  him  down,  and  like  a  flying  star 
Led  on  thegray-hair'd  wisdom  of  theeast ; 
But  her  thou  hast  not  known  :  for  what 

is  this 
Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and  thy 

sins? 
Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save  thyself 
As  Galahad.'     When  the  hermit  made 

an  end. 
In  silver  armor  suddenly  Galahad  shone 
Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  enter' d,  and  we  knelt  in 

prayer. 
And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burning 

thirst 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  alone  ;  but  he  : 


'  Saw  ye  no  more  ?  I,  Galahad,  saw  the 

Grail, 
The  Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the  shrine : 
I  saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a  child 
That  smote  itselfinto  the  bread,  and  went ; 
And  hither  am  1  come  ;  and  never  yet 
Hath  whatthy  sister  taught  nje  first  to  see, 
This  Holy  Thing,  fail'd  from  my  side, 

nor  come 
Cover' d,  but  moving  with  me  night  and 

day. 
Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
Blood-red,  andslidingdown  the  blacken'd 

marsh 
Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain  top 
Blood -red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere  below 
Blood-red.     And  in  the  strength  of  this 

I  rode. 
Shattering  all  evil  customs  everywhere, 
And  past  thro'  Pagan  realms,  and  made 

them  mine, 
And  clash'd  with  Pagan  hordes,  and  bore 

them  down. 
And  broke  thro'  all,  and  in  the  strength 

of  this 
Comevictor.  Butmy timeishardat  hand. 
And  hence  I  go  ;  and  one  will  crown  me 

king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city  ;  and  come  thou, 

too, 
For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I  go.' 

"  While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye,  dwell- 
ing on  mine, 
Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  1  grew 
One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  believed. 
Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane,  we 
went. 

"  There  rose  a  hill  that  none  but  man 

could  climb, 
Scarr'd  with  a  hundred  wintry  water- 
courses — 
Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain'd  it, 

storm 
Round  us  and  death  ;  for  every  moment 

glanced 
His  silver  arms  and  gloom'd  :  so  quick 

and  thick 
The  lightnings  here  and  there   to  left 

and  right 
Struck,.till  the  dry  old  trunks  about  us, 

dead, 
Yea,  rotten  with  ahundred  years  of  death. 
Sprang  into  fire  :  and  at  the  base  we  found 
On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  .see, 
A  great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil  smell, 


206 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Part  black,  pdrt  whiten'd  with  the  bones 

of  men, 
Not  to  be  crost,  save  th- 1  some  ancient  king 
Had  built  a  way,   wiiere,   link'd  with 

many  a  bridge, 
A  thousand  piei-s  ran  into  the  great  sea. 
And  Galahad  lied  along  them  bridge  by 

bridge. 
And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he  crost 
Sprang  into  fire  and  vanish'd,  tho'  1 

yearn'd 
To  follow  ;  and  thrice  above  him  all  the 

heavens 
Open'd  and  blazed  with  thunder  such  as 

seem'd 
Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God  :  and  first 
At  once  I  saw  him  far  on  the  great  sea, 
In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear  ; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a  luminous 

cloud. 
And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the  boat 
If  boat  itwere —  I  saw  not  whence  it  came. 
And  when  the  heavens  open'd  and  blazed 

again 
Roaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star  — 
And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the  boat 
Become  a  living  creature  clad  with  wings  ? 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Redder  than  any  rose,  a  joy  to  me, 
For  now  1  knew  the  veil  had  been  with- 
drawn. 
Then  in  a  moment  when  they  blazed  again 
Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 
Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  beyond 

the  star 
I  saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her  spires 
And  gateways  in  a  glory  like  one  pearl  — 
No  larger,  tho'  the  goal  of  all  the  saints — 
Strike  from  the  sea ;  ajid  from  the  star 

there  shot 
A  rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and  there 
Dwelt,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  Holy  Grail, 
Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall 

see. 
Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drowning 

the  deep. 
And  how  my  feet  recross'd  the  deathful 

ridge 
Nomemoryin  me  lives  ;  butthatltouch'd 
The  chapel-doors  at  dawn  I  know  ;  and 

thence 
Taking  my  war-horse  from  the  holy  man. 
Glad  that  no  phantom  vext  me  more, 

return'd 
To  whence  1  came,  the  gate  of  Arthur's 

wars." 


' '  0  brother, "  ask'd  Ambrosius,  —  "  foi 

in  sooth 
These  ancient  books  —  and  they  would 

win  thee  —  teem, 
Only  I  find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail, 
With  miracles  and  marvels  like  to  these. 
Not  all  unlike  ;  which  oftentime  I  read. 
Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with  ease. 
Till  my  head  swims  ;  and  then  go  forth 

and  pass 
Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so  close, 
And  almost  plaster'd  like  a  martin's  nest 
To  these  old  walls  —  and  mingle  with 

our  folk  ; 
And  knowing  every  honest  face  of  theirs, 
As  well  as  ever  shepherd  knew  his  sheep, 
And  every  homely  secret  in  their  hearts. 
Delight  myself  with  gossip  and  old  wives. 
And  ills  and  aches,  and  teethings,  Ipngs- 

in. 
And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the 

place, 
That  have  no  meaning  half  a  league  away : 
Or  lulling  random  squabbles  when  they 

rise, 
Chafferings  and  chatterings  at  the  mar- 
ket-cross. 
Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world 

of  mine, 
Yea,  evenintheirhensandin their  eggs — 
0  brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad 
Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in  your 

quest. 
No  man,  no  woman  ? " 

Then,  Sir  Percivale  : 
"All  men,  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a  vow. 
And  women  were  as  phantoms.     0,  my 

brother. 
Why  wiltthou  shame  metoconfess  to  thee 
How  far  I  falter'd  from  my  quest  and  vow  ? 
For  after  I  had  lain  so  many  nights 
A  bedmate  of  the  snail  and  eft  and  snake. 
In  grass  and  burdock,  I  was  changed  to 

wan 
Andmeagie,  and  the  vision  had  not  come. 
And  then  i  chanced  upon  a  goodly  town 
With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle  of 

it ; 
Thither  1  made,  and  there  was  I  disarm'd 
By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower  : 
But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  behold 
The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the  one, 
Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had  ever 
Made  my  heart  leap  ;  for  when  I  moved 

of  old 
A  slender  page  about  her  father's  hall. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


207 


And  she  a  slender  maiden,  all  my  heart 
Went  afterher  with  longing :  yet  we  twain 
Had  never  kiss'd  a  kiss,  or  vow'd  a  vow. 
And  now  I  came  upon  her  once  again. 
And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was  dead. 
And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state 

were  hers. 
.\nd  while  I  tarried,  every  day  she  set 
V  banquet  rfther  than  the  day  before 
Jy  rae  ;  for  all  her  longing  and  her  will 
Was  toward  me  as  of  old  ;  till  one  fair 

morn, 
I  walking  to  and  fro  beside  a  stream 
That   flash'd  across  her  orchard  under- 
neath 
Her  castle- walls,  she  stole  upon  my  walk. 
And  calling  me  the  greatest  of  all  knights, 
Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss'd  me  the  tirst 

time, 
.\ndgave herself  and  all  her  wealth  to  me. 
Then   I    remember'd  Arthur's  warning 

word, 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering 

fires. 
And  the  Quest  faded  in  my  heart.     Anon, 
The  heads  of  all  her  people  drew  to  me, 
With  supplication  both   of  knees   and 

tongue  : 
'  We  have  heard  of  thee  :  thou  art  our 

greatest  knight, 
Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe  : 
Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us, 
And  thou  shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our  land.' 
0  me,  my  brother  !  but  one  night  my  vow 
Burnt  me  within,  so  that  I  rose  and  fled. 
But  wail'd  and  wept,  and  hated  mine 

own  self, 
And  ev'u  the  HolyQuest,  and  all  buther  ; 
Then  after  I  was  join'd  with  Galahad 
Cared  not  for  her,  nor  anything  upon 

earth." 

Then  said  the  monk,  "  Poor  men,  when 

yule  is  cold, 
.Must  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires. 
And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 
Kver  so  little  ;  yea,  and  blest  be  Heaven 
Tliat  brought  thee  here  to  this  poor  house 

of  ours. 
Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard,  to 

warm 
My  cold  heart  with  a  friend  :  but  0  the 

pity 

To  find  thine  own  first  love  once  more  — 

to  hold. 
Hold  her  a  wealthy  bride  within  thine 

arms. 


Or  all  but  hold,  and  then  —  cast  her  aside, 
Foregoing  all  her  sweetness,  like  a  weed. 
For  we  that  want  the  warmth  of  double 

life. 
We   that  are  plagued  with  dreams  of 

something  sweet 
Beyond  all  sweetness  in  a  life  so  rich,  — 
Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I  speak  too  earthly  wise, 
Seeing  1  never  stray'd  beyond  the  cell. 
But  live  like  an  old  badger  in  his  earth. 
With  earth  about  him  everywhere,  despite 
All  fast  and  penance.  Saw  ye  none  beside, 
None  of  your  knights  ? " 

"Yea  so,"  said  Percivale  : 
"  One  night  my  pathway  swerving  east, 

I  saw 
The  pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir  Bors 
All  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon  : 
And  toward  him  spurr'd  and  haU'd  him, 

and  he  me. 
And  each  made  joy  of  either  ;  then  he 

ask'd, 
'  Where  is  he  ?  hast  thou  seen  him  — 

Lancelot?'     'Once,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,   'he  dash'd  across 

me  —  mad. 
And  maddening  what  he  rode  :  and  when 

I  cried, 
"  Ridest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a  quest 
So  holy  ?"  Lancelot  shouted,  "Stay  me 

not! 
I  have  been  the  sluggard,   and  I  ride 

apace. 
For  now  there  is  a  lion  in  the  way." 
So  vanish' d.' 

"Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 
Softly,  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lancelot, 
Because  his  former  madness,  once  the  talk 
And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  return'd  ; 
For  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin  so  worship 

him 
That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them  ;  to  Bors 
Beyond  the  rest :  he  well  had  been  content 
Not  to  have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might  have 

seen. 
The  Holy  Cup  of  healing  ;  and,  indeed. 
Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and  love, 
Small  heart  was  his  after  the  Holy  Quest : 
If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well :  if  not. 
The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands  of 

heaven. 

"  And  then,  with  small  adventure  met, 
Sir  Bors 
Rode  to  the  lonest  tnut  of  all  the  realm. 


208 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


And  found  a  people  there  among  their 

crags, 
Our  race  and  blood,  a  remnant  that  were 

left 
Paynim  amid  their  circles,  and  the  stones 
They  pitch  up  straight  to  heaven  :  and 

their  wise  men 
Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which  can 

trace 
The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and  scoffd 

at  him 
And  this  high  Quest  as  at  a  simple  thing  : 
Told  him  he  follow'd  —  almost  Arthur's 

words  — 
A  mocking  fire  :  'what  other  fire  than  he. 
Whereby  the  blood  beats,  and  the  blossom 

blows, 
And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  is 

warm'd  ? ' 
And  when  his  answer  chafed  them,  the 

rough  crowd. 
Hearing  he  had  a  difiFerence  with  their 

priests. 
Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged  him 

into  a  cell 
Of  great  ])iled  stones  ;  and  lying  bounden 

there 
In  darkness  thro'  innumerable  hours 
He  heard  the  hollow-ringing   heavens 

sweep 
Over  him,  till  by  miracle  — what  else  ? — 
Heavy asitwas,  agreat stone slipt  and  fell. 
Such  as  no  wind  could  move  :  and  thro' 

the  gap 
Glimmer'd   the   streaming  scud  :    then 

came  a  night 
Still  as  the  day  was  loud ;  and  thro'  thegap 
The  seven  clear  stars  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round  — 
For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because  they 

roll 
Thro'  such  a  round  in  heaven,  we  named 

the  stars, 
Rejoicing  in  ourselves  and  in  our  king  — 
And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar 

friends, 
In  on  him  shone,  '  And  then  to  me,  to 

me,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,   'beyond  all  hopes 

of  mine. 
Who  scarce  had  pray'd  or  ask'd  it  for 

myself — 
Across  the  seven  clear  stars  —  0  grace  to 

me  — 
In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Tk'fore  a  burning  taper,  the  sweet  Grail 
Glided  and  past,  and  close  \ipon  it  peal'd 


A  sharp  quick  thunder.'     Afterwards  a 

maid, 
Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her  kin 
In  secret,  entering,  loosed  and  let  him  go." 

To  whom  the  monk :  "And  I  remem- 
ber now 
That  pelican  on  the  casque .  Si  r  Bors  it  wa" 
Who  spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our  board ; 
And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace  was  he  : 
A  square-set  man  and  honest ;  and  his 

eyes, 
An  out-doorsignof  all  the  warmth  within. 
Smiled  with  his  lips  —  a  smile  beneath 

a  cloud. 
But  heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny  one  : 
Ay,  ay,  Sir  Bors,  who  else  ?     But  when 

j'e  reach'd 
The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights  re- 

turn'd, 
Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur's  prophecy, 
Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and  what 
the  King  ? " 

Then  answer'd  Percivale  :  "And  that 
can  I, 
Brother,  and  truly ;  since  the  living  words 
Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our  King 
Pass  not  from  door  to  door  and  out  again. 
But  sit  within  the  house.     O,  when  we 

reach'd 
The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as  they 

trode 
On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 
Crack'd  basilisks,   and  splinter'd  cock- 
atrices. 
And  shatter'd  talbots,  which  had  left  the 

stones 
Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us  to 
the  hall. 

"And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais- 
throne. 
And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 

Quest, 
Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a  titheof  them. 
And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before  the 

King. 
Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade 

me  hail, 
Saying,  '  A  welfare  in  thine  ^ye  reproves 
Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance  for  thee 
On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding  ford. 
So  fierce  a  gale  made  havoc  here  of  late 
Among  the  strange  devices  of  our  kings  ; 
Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall  of 
ours. 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


209 


And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded  for 
us 

Half-wrench'd  a  golden  wing ;  but  now — 
the  quest, 

This  vision  —  hast  thou  seen  the  Holy 
Cup, 

That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glaston- 
bury ? ' 

"So  when  I  told  him  all  thyself  hast 

heard, 
Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  resolve 
To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life, 
He  answer' d  not,  but,  sharply  turning, 

ask'd 
Of  Gawain,  *  Gawain,  was  this  Quest  for 

thee  ? ' 

"'Nay,  lord,'  said  Gawain,  'not  for 

such  as  I. 
Therefore  I  communed withasaintlyman. 
Who  made  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not  for 

me  ; 
For  I  was  much  awearied  of  the  Quest : 
But  found  a  silk  pavilion  in  a  field. 
And  merry  maidens  in  it ;  and  then  this 

gale 
Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting-pin, 
And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all  about 
With  all  discomfort ;  yea,  and  but  for  this, 
My  twelvemonth  and  a  day  were  pleasant 

to  me.' 

"  He  ceased  ;   and  Arthur  tum'd  to 

whom  at  first 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bors,  on  enteiing, 

push'd 
Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot,  caught 

his  hand. 
Held  it,  and  there,  half-hidden  by  him, 

stood. 
Until  the  King  espied  him,  sajing  tohim, 
'  Hail,  Bors  !  if  ever  loyal  man  and  true 
Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail '  ; 

and  Bors, 
'  Ask  me  not,  for  I  may  not  speak  of  it, 
I  saw  it '  :  and  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

"Then  there  remain'd  but  Lancelot, 

for  the  rest 
Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  in  the  storm  ; 
Perhaps,  like  him  of  Caiia  in  Holy  Writ, 
Oir  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the  last ; 
'Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,' ask'd  the  King, 

'  my  friend, 
Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail'd 

for  thee  ? ' 


"  'Our  mightiest ! '  answer'd  Lancelot, 

with  a  groan  ; 
'  0  King  ! '  —  and  when  he  paused,  m'e- 

thought  I  spied 
A  dying  tire  of  madness  in  his  eyes  — 
'  0  King,  my  tViend,  if  friend  of  thine  I  be, 
Ha]ipier  are  those  that  welter  in  their  sin, 
Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  for 

slime, 
Slime  of  the  ditch  :  but  in  me  lived  a  sin 
So  strange,  of  such  a  kind,  that  all  of  pure. 
Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined  and 

clung 
Round  that  one  sin,  until  the  wholesome 

flower 
And  poisonous  grew  together,  each  as  each, 
Not  to  be  pluck'd  asunder ;  and  when 

thy  knights 
Sware,  I  sware  with  them  only  in  the  hope 
That  could  1  touch  or  see  the  Holy  Grail 
They  might  be  pluck'd  asunder.     Then 

1  spake 
To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and  said, 
That  save  they  could  be  pluck'd  asunder, 

all 
My  quest  were  but  in  vain  ;  to  whom  I 

vow'd 
That  I  would  work  according  as  he  will'd. 
And  forth  I  went,  and  while  1  yearn'd 

and  strove 
To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my  heart. 
My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old. 
And  whipt  me  into  waste  fields  far  away  ; 
There  was  I  beaten  down  by  little  men, 
Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving  of 

my  sword 
And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been  enow 
To  scare  them  from  me  once  ;  and  then 

I  came 
All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore, 
Wide   flats,  where  nothing   but  coarse 

grasses  grew ; 
But  such  a  blast,  my  King,  began  to  blow, 
So  loud  a  blast  along  the  shore  and  sea. 
Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the  blast, 
Tho'  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all  the  sea 
Drove  like  a  cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept  like  a  river,  and  the  clouded  heavens 
Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the 

sound. 
And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam  sway'd  a 

boat, 
Half-swallow'd  in  it,  anchor'd  with  a 

chain  ; 
And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I  said, 
"  I  will  embark  and  I  will  lose  myself, 
Anc>  in  the  great  sea  wash  away  my  sin." 


210 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


I  burst  the  chain,  I  sprang  into  the  boat. 
Seven  days  1  drove  along  the  dreary  deep, 
And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all  the 

stars ; 
And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh 

night 
I  heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the  surge, 
And  felt  the  boat  shock  earth,  and  look- 
ing up. 
Behold,  the  enchan  ted  towers  of  Carbonek, 
A  castle  like  a  rock  upon  a  rock. 
With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the  sea. 
And  steps  that  met  the  breaker !  there 

was  none 
Stood  near  it  but  a  lion  on  each  side 
That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon  was  full. 
Then  from  the  boat  1  leapt,  and  up  the 

stairs. 
There  drew  my  sword.     With  sudden- 
flaring  manes 
Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright  like 

a  man, 
Each  gript  a  shoulder,  and  I  stood  be- 
tween ; 
And,  when  1  would  have  smitten  them, 

heard  a  voice, 
"  Doubt  not,  go  forward  ;  if  thou  doubt, 

the  beasts 
Will  tear  thee  piecemeal."     Then  with 

violence 
The  sword  was  dash'd  from  out  my  hand, 

and  fell. 
And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I  past ; 
But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I  saw 
No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the  wall 
Or  shield  of  knight  ;  only  the  rounded 

moon 
Thro'  the  tall  onel  on  the  rolling  sea. 
But  always  in  the  quiet  house  I  heard. 
Clear  as  a  lark,  high  o'er  me  as  a  lark, 
Asweetvoice  singinginthe  topmost  tower 
To  the  eastward  :  up  I  climb'd  a  thou- 

.sand  steps 
With  pain  :  as  in  a  dream  I  seem'd  to 

climb 
For  ever  :  at  the  last  I  reach'd  a  door, 
A  light  wa-s  in  the  crannies,  and  1  heard, 
"  Glory  and  joy  and  honor  to  our  Lord 
And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail." 
Then  in  my  madness  1  essay'd  the  door  ; 
It  gave  ;  and  thro'  a  .stormy  glare,  a  heat 
As  from  a  seventimes-heated  furnace,  1, 
Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I  was, 
With  such  a   fierceness  that  1  swoon'd 

away  — 
O,  yet  methonght  I  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
All  pall'd  in  crimson  samite,  and  around 


Great  angels,  awful  shapes,  and  wings 

and  eyes. 
And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my  sin, 
And  then  my  swooning,  1  had  sworn  1  saw 
That  which  1  saw  ;  but  what  I  saw  was 

veil'd 
And  cover'd  ;  and  this  quest  was  not  for 

me.' 

"So    speaking,    and    here    ceasing, 

Lancelot  left 
The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain  — 

nay. 
Brother,   I   need   not  tell  thee  foolish 

words,  — 
A  reckless  and  iiTeverent  knight  was  he, 
Kowbolden'dby  the  silence  of  his  King,  — 
Well,  i    will  tell   thee :    '  0   king,  my 

liege,'  he  said, 
'  Hath  Gawain  fail'd  in  any  quest  of  thine  ? 
When  have  1  stinted  stroke  in  foughten 

field  ? 
But  asforthine,  my  good  friend,  Percivale, 
Thy  holy   nun   and  thou   have   driven 

men  mad. 
Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  than 

our  least. 
Butbymineeyesandbymineears  I  swear, 
I  will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat, 
And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday  owl. 
To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies. 
Henceforward.' 

"  'Deafer,'  said  the  blameless  King, 
'Gawain,  and  blinder  unto  lioly  things 
Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle  vows. 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 
But  if  indeed  there  came   a  sign  from 

heaven. 
Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot,  and  Percivale, 
For  these  have  seen  according  to  their 

»    sight. 
For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times, 
And  all  the  sacred  madness  of  the  bard. 
When  God  made  music  thro'  them,  could 

but  speak 
His  music  by  the   framework  and  the 

chord  ; 
And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken  tnith. 

"'Nay — but  thou  errest,  Lancelot: 

never  yet 
Could   all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight 

and  man 
Twi.ie  round  one  sin,  whatever  it  might  be, 
With  such  a  closeness,  but  apart  there 

grew, 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


211 


Save  that  he  were  the  swine  thou  spak- 
est  of, 

Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure  noble- 
ness ; 

Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear  its 
flower. 

"  'And  spake  I  not  too  truly,  0  my 
kni  j;hts  ? 
Was  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  said 
To  those  who  went  upon  the  Holy  Quest, 
That  most  of  them  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires. 
Lost  in  the  quagmire  ?  —  lost  to  me  and 

gone, 
And  left  me  gazing  at  a  barren  board, 
And  a  lean    Order  —  scarce   return'd  a 

tithe  — 
And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision  came 
My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he  saw  ; 
Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off, 
And    leaving    human   wrongs   to   right 

themselves, 
Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 
And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to  face, 
Antl  now  his  chair  desires  him  here  in  vain, 
However  they  may  crown  him  otherwhere. 

"  '  And  some  among  you  held,  that  if 

the  King 
Had  seen  the  sight  he  would  have  sworn 

thi  vow  : 
Not  easily,  seeing  that  the  King  must 

guard 
That  which  he  rules,  andis  butas  thehind 
To  whom  a  space  of  land  isgiven  to  plough, 
Who  miy  not  wamler  from  the  allotted 

fi-ld. 
Before  his  work  be  done ;  but,  being  done. 
Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the  day 
Come,  as  they  will ;  and  many  a  time  they 

come,  • 

Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  seems  not 

earth, 
Tliis  lii^ht  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is  not 

light. 
This  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is  not  air 
But   vision  —  yea,    his   very  hand  and 

foot  — 
In  moments  when  he  feels  he  cannot  die, 
And  knows  himself  no  vision  to  himself. 
Nor  the  high  God  a  vision,  nor  that  One 
Who  rose  again  :  ye  have  seen  what  ye 

have  seen.' 

"So  spake  the  king  :  I  knew  not  all 
he  meant." 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to  fill 

the  gap 
Left  by  the  Holy  Quest ;  and  as  he  sat 
In  hall  at  old  Gaerleon,  the  high  doors 
Were  softly  sunder' d,  and  thro'  these  a 

youth, 
Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  fields 
Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along  with 

him. 

"  Make    me  thy  knight,    because   I 

know.  Sir  King, 
All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I 

love," 
Such  was  his  cry  ;  for  having  heard  the 

King 
Had  let   proclaim  a   tournament  —  the 

prize 
A  golden  circlet  and  a  knightly  sword. 
Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady  won 
The  golden  circlet,  for  himself  the  sword  : 
And  there  were  those   who   knew   him 

near  the  King 
And  promised  for  him  :  and  Arthur  made 

him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight,  Sir  Pelleas  of 

the  isles  — 
But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance. 
And  lord  of  many  a  barren  isle  was  he  — 
Riding  at  noon,  a  day  or  twain  before. 
Across  the  forest  call'd  of  Dean,  to  find 
Caerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the  sun 
Beat  like  a  strong  knight  on  his  helm, 

and  reel'd 
Almost  to  fallingfrom  his  horse  ;  butsaw 
Near  him  a  mound  of  even-sloping  side, 
Whereon  a  hundred  stately  beeches  grew. 
And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under 

them. 
But  for  a  mile  all  round  was  open  space. 
And  fern  and  heath  :  and  slowly  Pelleas 

drew 
To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his  good 

horse 
To  a  tree,  cast  himself  down  ;  and  as  he 

lay 
At  random  looking  over  the  brown  earth 
Thro'  that  green-glooming  twilight  of  the 

grove, 
It  seem'd  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern  without 
Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emeralds, 
Sothathis  eyes  were  dazzled  lookiiigat  it. 
Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a  cloud 
Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a  bird 


212 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


Flying,  and  then  a  fawn  ;  and  his  eyes 

closed. 
And  since  he  loved  all  maidens,  but  no 

maid 
In   special,    half -awake   he  whisper'd, 

"  Where  ? 
0  where  ?    I  love  thee,  tho'  I  know  thee 

not. 
For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guinevere, 
And  I  will  make  thee  with  my  spear  and 

sword 
As  famous  —  0  my  queen,  my  Guinevere, 
For  1  will  be  thine  Arthur  when  we  meet.' 

Suddenly  waken'd  with  a  sound  of  talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood, 
And  glancing  thro'  the  hoary  boles,  he 

saw, 
Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might 

have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  sea  of  fire, 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of  bracken 

stood  : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confusedly, 
Xnd  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and  one 

that, 
because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose, 
jLnd  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to  the 

light, 
rhere  she  that  seem'd  the  chief  among 

them  said, 
"In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star  ! 
ifouth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we 

ride, 
Arm'dasyesee,  to  tilt  against  the  knights 
There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our  way  : 
To  right  ?  to  left  ?  straightforward  ?  back 

again  ? 
Which  ?  tell  us  quickly." 

And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 
"  Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful  ?" 
For  large  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and  her 

bloom 
A  rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless  heavens, 
And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  woman- 
hood. 
And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small  her 

shape, 
And  but  for  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts 

of  scorn, 
She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle  with. 


And  pass  and  care  no  more.     But  while 

he  gazed 
The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the  boy, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul  : 
For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the  good, 
Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by  default 
Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 
All  !he  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul  to 

hers. 
Belie  vingher ;  and  when  she  spake  to  him. 
Stammer' d,  and  could  not  make  her  a 

reply. 
For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he  come, 
Where  sa^^nghisownsisteI•s he  had  known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles, 
Rough  wives,  that  laugh'd  and  scream'd 

against  the  gulls. 
Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the  sea. 

Then  with  a  slow  smile  turn'd  the  lady 
round 
And  look'd  upon  her  people  ;  and  as  when 
A  stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping  tarn. 
The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge, 
Spread  the  slow  smile  thro'  all  her  com- 
pany. 
Three   knights   were  thereamong ;   and 

they  too  smiled, 
Scorning  him  ;  for  the  lady  was  Ettarre, 
And  she  was  a  great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  "0  wild  and  of  the 

woods, 
Knowest  thou   not  the  fashion  of  our 

speech  ? 
Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee  a 

fair  face. 
Lacking  a  tongue  ? " 

"0  damsel,"  answer'd  he, 
"  I  woke  from  dreams  ;  and  coming  out 

of  gloom 
Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and 

crave 
Pardon  :  but  will  ye  to  Caerleon  ?    I 
Go  likewise :  shall  I  lead  you  to  the  King  ? " 

"  Lead  then,"  she  said  ;  and  thro'  the 

woods  they  went. 
And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in  his 

eyes, 
His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste 

awe. 
His  broken  utterances  and  bashfulness. 
Were  all  a  burthen  to  her,  and  in  her 

heart 
She  mutter'd,  "  I  have  lighted  on  a  fool, 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


213 


Raw,  yet  so  stale  !  "   But  since  her  mind 

was  bent 
On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her 

name 
And  title,  "  Queen  of  Beauty,"  in  the  lists 
Cried  —  and   beholding  him   so  strong, 

she  thought 
That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for  me, 
And  win  the  circlet :  therefore  flatter'd 

him, 
Beingso  gracious,  that  he  wellnighdeem'd 
His  wish  by  hers  was  echo'd ;  and  her 

knights 
And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious  to 

him, 
For  she  was  a  great  lady. 

And  w^hen  they  reach'd 
Caerleon,  ere  they  past  to  lodging,  she, 
Taking  his  hand,  "  0  the  strong  hand," 

she  said, 
"See!  look  at  mine!  but  wilt  thou  fight 

for  me. 
And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 
That  I  may  love  thee  ? " 

Then  his  helpless  heart 
Leapt,  and  he  cried  '*  Ay  !  wilt  thou  if 

I  win  ? " 
"Ay,  that  will  I,"  she  answer' d,  and  she 

laugh'd, 
And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung  it 

from  her  ; 
Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three  knights 

of  hers, 
Till  all  her  ladies  laugh'd  along  with  her. 

"0   happy  world,"  thought  Pelleas, 

"all,  meseems. 
Are  happy  ;  I  the  happiest  of  them  all." 
Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in  his 

blood, 
And  green  wood -ways,  and  eyes  among 

the  leaves  ; 
Then  beingon  the  morrow  knighted,  sware 
To  love  o:ie  only.    And  as  he  came  awa)'. 
The  men  who  met  him  rounded  on  their 

heels 
And  wonder'd  after  him,  because  his  face 
Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a  priest  of 

old 
Against  the  flame  about  a  sacrifice 
Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven  :  so  glad  was 

he. 

Then  Arthur  made  vast  banquets,  and 
strange  knights 


From  the  four  winds  came  in  :  and  each 
one  sat, 

Tho'  served  with  choice  from  air,  land, 
stream,  and  sea, 

Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with  his 
eyes 

His  neighbor's  make  and  might :  and 
Pelleas  look'd 

Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream'd 

His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  himself 

Loved  of  the  King :  and  him  his  new- 
made  knight 

Worshipt,  whose  lightest  whisper  moved 
him  more 

Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the  world. 

Then  blush'd  and  brake  the  morning 

of  the  jousts. 
And  this  was  call'd  "  The  Tournament 

of  Youth  "  : 
For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight, 

withheld 
His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the  lists. 
That   Pelleas  might  obtain  his   lady's 

love, 
According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the  tourney.     And  Arthur  had 

the  jousts 
Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of  Usk 
Holden :  thegildedparapetswerecrown'd 
With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  fill'd 

with  eyes 
Up  to  the  summit,  and  thetrumpets  blew. 
There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept  the  field 
With  honor  :  so  by  that  strong  hand  of  his 
The    sword    and    golden    circlet    were 

achieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved  : 
the  heat 

Of  pride  and  g'ory  fired  her  face  ;  her  eye 

Sparkled  ;  she  caught  the  circlet  from 
his  lance, 

And  there  before  the  people  crown'd  her- 
self. 

So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious  to  him. 

Then  at  Caerleon  for  a  space — her  look 
Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on   her 

.  knight  — 
Linger'd    Ettarre  :   and    seeing   Pellei»s 

droop. 
Said   Guinevere,   "We  marvel  at  thee 

much, 
0  damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 
To  him  who  won  thee  glory  ! "  And  she 

said. 


214 


P'ELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


"  Had  ye  not  held  yooi;  Lancelot  in  your 

bower, 
My  Queen,  he  had  not  won."     Whereat 

the  Queen, 
As  one  wliose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant. 
Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn'd  and  went 

her  way. 

But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and  her- 
self. 
And  those  three   knights  all  set  their 

faces  home, 
Sir  Pelleas  foUow'd.     She  that  saw  him 

cried, 
"  Damsels  —  and  yet  I  should  be  shamed 

to  say  it  — 
I  cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.   Keep  him  back 
Among  yourselves.     Would  rather  that 

we  had 
Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the 

worldly  way. 
Albeit  grizzlier  than  a  bear,  to  ride 
And  jest  with :  take  him  to  you,  keep 

him  off. 
And  pamper  him  withpapmeat,  if  j'e  will, 
Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep, 
Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell  their 

boys. 
Nay,  should  ye  try  him  with  a  merry  one 
To  find  his  mettle,  good  :  and  if  he  fly 

us. 
Small  matter  !  let  him."   This  her  dam- 
sels heard. 
And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel  hand. 
They,  closing  round  him  thro'  the  jour- 
ney home. 
Acted  her  best,  and  always  from  her  side 
Restrain'd  him  with  all  manner  of  device, 
So  that  he  could  not  come  to  .speech  with 

her. 
And  when  she  gain'd  her  castle,  upsprang 

the  bridge, 
Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro'  the 

groove. 
And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

"  These  be  the  ways  of  ladies,"  Pelleas 

thought, 
"  To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of  our 

faith. 
Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost. 
For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I." 
So  made  his  moan  ;  and,  darkness  falling, 

sought 
A  priory  not  far  off,  there  lodged,  but  rose 
With  morning  every  day,  and,  moist  or 

dry, 


Full-arm'd  upon  his  charger  all  day  long 
Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open'd  to 
him. 

And  this  persistence  turn'd  her  scorn 
to  wrath. 

Then  calling  her  three  knights,  she 
charged  them,  "  Out ! 

And  drive  him  from  the  walls."  And 
out  they  came. 

But  Pelleas  overthrew  them  astheydash'd 

Against  him  one  by  one  ;  and  these  re- 
turn'd. 

But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath  the 
wall. 

Thereon   her  wrath  became  a  hate  ; 

and  once, 
A  week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the 

walls 
With  her  three   knights,   she   pointed 

downward,  "Look, 
He   haunts   me  —  I    cannot    breathe  — 

besieges  me  ; 
Down  !  strike  him  !   put  my  hate  into 

your  strokes. 
And  drive  him  from  my  walls."     And 

down  they  went. 
And  Pelleas  overthrew  them  one  bj'  one ; 
And  from  the   tower  above   him   cried 

Ettarre, 
','  Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in." 

He  heard  her  voice  ; 

Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had 
overthrown 

Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  over- 
threw 

Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they  brought 
him  in. 

Then  when  he   came  before  Ettarre, 

the  sight 
Of  her  rich  beautymadehim  at  one  glance 
More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in  his 

bonds. 
Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  "  Behold 

me,  Lady, 
A  prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will ; 
And  if  thou  keep  me  in  thy  donjon  here, 
Content  am  1  so  that  I  see  thy  face 
Butoncea  day :  fori  have  sworn  my  vows. 
And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and  I 

know 
That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my  faith, 
And  that  thyself  when  thou  hast  seen  me 

strain'd 


PELLEAS  AND  BTTARRE. 


215 


And  sifted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 
Yield  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for  thy 
knight." 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly, 
With  all  her  damsels,  he  was  stricken 

mute  ; 
But  when  she  mock'd  his  vows  and  the 

great  King, 
Lighted  on  words  :  "For  pity  of  thine 

own  self. 
Peace,  Lady,  peace  :  is  he  not  thine  and 

mine  ?" 
"Thou  fool,"  she  said,  "I  never  heard 

his  voice 
But  long'd  to  break  away.    Unbind  him 

now. 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doors ;  for  save 

he  be 
Fool  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  his  bones, 
He  will  return  no  more."     And  those, 

her  three, 
Laugh'd,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him 

from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a  week  beyond,  again 
She  call'd   them,    saying,    "There    he 

watches  yet, 
There  like  a  dog  before  his  master's  door  ! 
Kick'd,  he  returns  :  do  ye  not  hate  him, 

ye? 
Ye  know  yourselves :  how  can  ye  bide 

at  peace. 
Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence  ? 
Are  ye  but  creatures  of  the  board  and  bed. 
No  men  to  strike  ?  Fallon  him  all  at  once, 
And  if  ye  slay  him  I  reck  not :  if  ye  fail. 
Give  ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  be  bound. 
Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him  in  : 
It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  in  his  bonds." 

She   spake ;    and    at   her  will    they 

couch'd  their  spears. 
Three againstone:  andGawainpassingby, 
Bound  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 
Low  dovni  beneath  the  shadow  of  those 

towers 
A  villany,  three  to  one :  and  thro'  his  heart 
The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 
Flash'd,  and  he  call'd,  "  I  strike  upon 

thy  side  — 
The    caitiffs!"     "Nay,"   said   Pelleae, 

"  but  forbear  ; 
He  needs  noaid  who  doth  his  lady'swiU." 

So  Gawain,  looking  at  the  villany  done, 
Forebore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 


Trembled  and  quiver' d,  as  the  dog,  with- 
held 
A  moment  from  the  vermin  that  he  sees 
Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs  and 
kills.  ^  . 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to 

three ;  '  ; 

And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and  brought 

him  in. 
Then  first  her  anger,  leaving  Pelleas, 

burn'd 
Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil  name 
Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten 

hound : 
"Yet,  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit  to 

touch. 
Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and  thrust 

him  out. 
And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his 

bonds. 
And  if  he  comes  again  " — there  she  brake 

short ; 
And  Pelleas  answer' d,  "Lady,  for  indeed 
I  loved  you  and  I  deem'd  you  beautiful, 
I  cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty  marr'd 
Thro'  evil  spite  :  and  if  ye  love  me  not, 
1  cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  forsworn  : 
I  had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my  love, 
Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you  —  farewell ; 
And  tho'  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my  love. 
Vex  not  yourself :  ye  will  not  see  me  more. " 

"While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed  upon 

the  man 
Of  princely  bearing,  tho'  in  bonds,  and 

thought, 
"  Why  have  1  push'd  him  from  me  ?  this 

man  loves, 
If  love  there  be  :  yet  him  1  loved  not. 

Wliy  ? 
I  deem'd  him  fool?  yea,  so?  or  that  in  him 
A  something  —  was  it  nobler  than  my- 
self?— 
Seem'd  my  reproach  ?    He  is  not  of  my 

kind. 
He  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me  well. 
Nay,  let  him  go  —  and  quickly."     And 

her  knights 
Laugh'd  not,  out  thrust  him  bounden 

out  of  door. 

Forth  sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed  him 
from  his  bpnds. 

And  flung  them  o'er  the  walls  ;  and  after- 
ward. 

Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a  lazar's  rag, 


216 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


'*' Jaith  of  my  body,"  he  said,  "  and  art 

•  ~  thou  not  — 

Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur 
made 

Knight  of  his  table  ;  yea  and  he  that  won 

The  circlet  ?  wherefore  hast  thou  so  de- 
famed 

Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the  rest, 

As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their 
will  ? " 

And  Pelleas  answer' d,  "0,  their  wills 

are  hers 
For  whom  I  won  the  circlet ;  and  mine, 

hers, 
Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her  face, 
Marr'd  tho'  it  be  with  spite  and  mockery 

now. 
Other  than  when  I  foundher  in  the  woods ; 
And  tho'  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in  spite. 
And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring  me  in, 
Let  me  be  bounden,  I  shall  see  her  face  ; 
Else  must  I  die  thro'  mine  unhappiness." 

And  Gawain  answer'd  kindly  tho'  in 

scorn, 
"  Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  slie  will, 
And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 
But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These  lighting  hands  of  mine  —  Christ 
m  kill  me  then 

*  But  I  will  slice  him  handless  by  the  wrist. 
And  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for  him. 
Howl  as  he  may.     But  hold  me  for  your 

friend  : 
Come,  ye  know  nothing :  here  I  pledge 

my  troth, 
Yea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Round, 
I  will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy  work, 
And  tame  thy  jailing  princess  to  thine 

hand. 
Lend  me  thine  horse  and  arms,  and  I 

will  say 
That  I  have  slain  thee.  She  will  let  me  in 
To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and  fall ; 
Then,  when  I  come  within  her  counsels, 

then 
From  prime  to  vespers  will  I  chant  thy 

praise 
As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover,  more 
Than  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till  she 

long 
To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again, 
Isot  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds 

and  warm, 
Dearer  than  freedom.     Wherefore  now 

thy  horse 


And  armor  :  let  me  go  :  be  comforted  : 
Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy^ 

and  hope 
The  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee  news 

of  gold." 

Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all  his 

arms. 
Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize,  and 

took 
Gawain's,  and  said,  "  Betray  me  not,  but 

help  — 
Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light-of- 

love  ? " 

"Ay,"  said  Gawain,  "for  women  be 
so  light." 
Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle  walls. 
And  raiseda  bugle  hangingfromhis  neck. 
And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 
That  all  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the  wall 
Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunting- 
tide. 

Up  ran  a  score  of  damsels  to  the  tower  ; 
"Avaunt,"  they  cried,  "our  ladyloves 

thee  not." 
But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  ^^so^  said, 
Gawain  am  I,  Gawain  of  Arthur's  court, 
And  I  have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom  ye 

hate  : 
Behold  his  horse  and  armor.    Open  gate. 
And  1  will  make  you  merry." 

And  down  they  ran, 
Her  damsels,  crying  to  their  lady,  "  Lo  ! 
Pelleas  is  dead  —  he  told  us  ^ — he  that  hath 
His  horse  and  armor :  will  ye  let  him  in  ? 
He  slew  him  !    Gawain,  Gawain  of  the 

court. 
Sir  Gawain  —  there  he  waits  below  the 

wall, 
Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say  him 

nay." 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on  thro' 
open  door 
Rode  Gawain,  whom  she  greeted  cour- 
teously. 
' '  Dead,  is  it  so  ?"  she  ask'd.     ' '  Ay,  ay, " 

said  he, 
"And  oft  in  dyingcried  upon  your  name. " 
"  Pity  on  him,"  she  answer'd,  "a  good 

knight. 
But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at  peace." 
• '  Ay,"  thought  Gawain,  "  and  ye  be  fair 
enow : 


PELLEAS   AND   ETTARRE. 


217 


But  I  to  your  dead  man  have  given  my 

troth,  .  - 

That  whom  ye  loathe  him  will  I  make 

you  love." 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about  the 

land, 
Lost  in  a  doubt,  Pelleas  wandering 
Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought  a 

moon 
With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods  and 

ways. 

The  night  was  hot :  he  could  not  rest, 

but  rode 
Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound  his 

horse 
Hard  by  the  gates.     Wide  open  were  the 

gates. 
And  no  watch  kept ;  and  in  thro'  these 

he  past, 
And  heard  but  his  own  steps,  and  his 

own  heart 
Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his  own 

self. 
And  his  own   shadow.     Then  he   crost 

the  court. 
And  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 
Yawning  ;  and  up  a  slope  of  garden,  all 
Of  rooes  white  and  red,  and  wild  ones 

mixt 
And  overgrowing  them,  went  on,  and 

found. 
Here  too,  all  hush'd  below  the  mellow 

moon. 
Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a  tiny  cave 
Came  lightening  downward,  and  so  spilt 

itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 

Then  was  he  ware  that  white  pavilions 
rose, 

Three  from  the  bushes,  gilden-peakt : 
in  one. 

Red  after  revel,  droned  her  lurdane 
knights 

Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires  across 
their  feet : 

I II  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 

Froz'n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her  dam- 
sels lay  : 

And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the  jousts 

Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Gawain  and 
Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a  hand  that  pushes  thro'  the 
leaf 


To  find  a  nest  and  feels  a  snake,  he  drew : 
Back,  as  a  coward  slinks  from  what  he 

feai-s 
To   cope  with,  or  a  traitor  proven,  or 

hound 
Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 
Creep  with  his  shadow  thro'  the  court 

again. 
Fingering  at  his  sword-handle  until  he 

stood 
There  on   the  castle-bridge  once  more, 

and  thought, 
' '  I  will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where 

they  lie." 

And  so  went  back  and  seeing  then? 

yet  in  sleep 
Said,   "  Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  holj 

sleep. 
Your  sleep  is  death,"  and  drew  the  sword, 

and  thought, 
"What!   slay  a  sleeping  knight?  the 

King  hath  bound 
And  sworn  me   to  this  brotherhood  "  ; 

again, 
"Alas  that  ever  a  knight  should  be  so 

false." 
Then  turn'd,  and  so  retum'd,  and  groan- 
ing laid 
The  naked  sword  athwart  their  naked 

throats. 
There  left  it,  and  them  sleeping ;   and 

she  lay,  ^ 

The  circlet  of  the  tourney  nrand  her  brows. 
And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across  her 

throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting  on 

his  horse 
Stared   at  her  towers  that,  larger  than 

themselves 
In  their  own  darkness,  throng'd  into  the 

moon. 
Then  crush'd  the  saddle  with  his  thighs, 

and  clench'd 
His  hands,  and  madden' d  with  himself 

and  moan'd  : 

"Would  they  have  risen  against  me 

in  their  blood 
At  the  last  day  ?     I  might  have  answer'd 

them 
Even   before   high   God.     0   towers  so 

strong. 
Huge,  solid,  would  that  even  wjrile  I  gaze 
The   crack  of  earthquake   shivering  to 

your  base 


218 


PELLEAS   AND   ETTARRE. 


Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  up  your  harlot 
roofs 

Bellowing,  and  charr'd  you  thro'  and 
thro'  within, 

Black  as  the  harlot's  heart  —  hollow  as 
a  skull ! 

Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro'  your  eye- 
let-holes. 

And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round  and 
round 

In  dung  and  nettles  !  hiss,  snake  —  I 
saw  liim  there  — 

Let  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell.  Who 
yells 

Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night, 
but  I  — 

I,  the  poor  PeUeas  whom  she  call'd  her 
fool? 

Fool,  beast  —  he,  she,  or  I  ?  myself  most 
fool; 

Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit  —  dis- 
graced, 

Dishonor'd  all  for  trial  of  true  love  — 

Love  ?  —  Ave  be  all  alike  :  only  the  king 

Hath  made  us  fools  and  liars.  0  noble 
vows  ! 

0  great  and  sane  and  simple  race  of  brutes 
That  own  no  lust  because  they  have  no 

law  ! 
For  why  should  I  have  loved  her  to  my 
shame  ? 

1  loathe  her,  as  I  loved  her  to  my  shame. 
I  never  loved  her,  I  but  lusted  for  her  — 
Away  —  " 

He  dash'd  the  rowel  into  his  horse, 
And  bounded  forth  and  vanish'd   thro' 
the  niglit. 

Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch  on 

her  throat. 
Awaking  knew  the  sword,  and  turn'd 

herself 
To  Gawain  :  "  Liar,  for  thou  hast   not 

slain 
This  Pelleas  !  here  he  stood  and  might 

have  slain 
Me  and  thyself."     And  he  that  tells  the 

tale 
Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  tiim'd 
To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on  earth, 
Andonly  lover;  and  thro' her  love  her  life 
Wasted  and  pined,  desiring  him  in  vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half  the 
night, 
And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the  sod 


From  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off  the 

hard. 
Rode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening  sun. 
Beside  that  tower  where  Percivale  was 

cowl'd. 
Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of  the 

dawn. 
For  so  the  words  were  flash'd  into  his 

heart 
He  knew  not  whence  or  wherefore  :  "0 

sweet  star, 
Pure  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the  dawn." 
And  there  he  would  have  wept,  but  fell 

his  eyes 
Harder  and  drier  than  a  fountain  bed 
In  summer:  thithercamethevillage girls 
And  linger'd  talking,  and  they  come  nc 

more 
Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  fiU'd  it  froir 

the  heights 
Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 
Of  sea&ons  :   hard  his  eyes  ;   harder  his 

heart 
Seem'd  ;  but  so  weary  were  his  limbs, 

that  he. 
Gasping,   "Of  Arthur's  hall  am  1,  bul 

here. 
Here  let  me  rest  and  die,"  cast  himseli 

down. 
And  gulph'd  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep 

so  lay. 
Till  shaken  by  a  dream,  tliat  Gawain  fired 
The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning  stai 
Eeel'd  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame, 

and  fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some  one 
nigh. 

Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  him, 
crying 

"  False  !  and  I  held  thee  pure  as  Guin- 
evere." 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and  re- 
plied, 

"  Am  1  but  false  as  Guinevere  is  pure  ? 

Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams  ?  or  being 
one 

Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not  heard 

That  Lancelot "  —  there  he  check'd  him- 
self and  paused. 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleas  as  with 

one 
Who  gets  a  wound  in  battle,  and  the  sword 
That  made  it  plunges  thro'  the  wound 

again. 


PELLEAS   AND   ETTAREE. 


219 


And  pricks  it  deeper  :  and  he  shrank  and 

wail'd, 
"  Is  the  Queen  false  ? "  and  Percivale  was 

mute. 
' '  Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held 

their  vows  ? " 
And  Percivale  made  answer  not  a  word. 
"  Is  the  king  true  ? "  "  The  king !  "  said 

Percivale. 
"  Why  then  let  men  couple  at  once  with 

wolves. 
What !  art  thou  mad  ?  " 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up, 
Ran  thro'  the  doors  and  vaulted  on  his 

horse 
And  iled  :  small  pity  upon  his  horse  had 

he, 
Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he  met 
A  cripple,  one   that   held   a   hand   for 

alms  — 
Hunch'd  as  he   was,  and  like   an   old 

dwarf-elm 
That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast,  the 

boy 
Paused  not  but  overrode  him,  shouting 

"False, 
And  false  with  Gawain  ! "  and  so  left  him 

bruised 
And  batter' d,  and  fled  on,  and  hill  and 

wood 
Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the 

gloora»  • 
That  follows  on  the  turning  of  the  world, 
Darken'd  the  common  path  :  he  twitch'd 

the  reins, 
And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew  it, 

swerve 
Now  off  it  and  now  on  ;  but  when  he  saw 
High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Merlin 

built. 
Blackening  against  the  dead-green  stripes 

of  even, 
"Black  nest  of  rats,"  he  groan' d,  "ye 

build  too  high." 

Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city  gates 
Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily. 
Warm  with  a  gracious  parting  from  the 

Queen, 
Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a  star 
And  marvelling  what  it  was  :  on  whom 

the  boy. 
Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow-grass 
Borne,  clash'd  :   and    Lancelot,  saying, 

"  What  name  hast  thou 
That  ridest  here  so  blindly  and  so  hard  ? " 


"I   have  no   name,"  he   shouted,    "a 

scourge  am  I, 
To  lash  the  treiisons  of  the  Table  Round." 
"  Yea,  but  thy  name  ? "    "I  have  many. 

names,"  he  cried  : 
"I  am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate  and 

evil  fame, 
And  like  a  poisonous  wind  I  pass  to  blast 
And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and  the 

Queen." 
"First  over  me,"  said  Lancelot,  "shalt 

thou  pass." 
"Fight  therefore,"  yell'd  the  other,  and 

either  knight 
Drew  back  a  space,  and  when  they  closed, 

at  once 
The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  floundering 

flung 
His  rider,  who  called  out  from  the  dark 

field, 
"Thou   art  false  as  Hell:   slay  me:  I 

have  no  sword." 
Then  Lancelot,  "  Yea,  between  thy  lips 

—  and  sharp  ; 
But  here  will  I  disedge  it  by  thy  death." 
"Slay  then,"  he  shriek'd,  "my  will  is 

to  be  slain." 
And  Lancelot,  with  his  heel  upon  the 

fall'n, 
Rolling  his  eyes,  a  moment  stood,  then 

spake  : 
"Rise,  weakling;  I  am  Lancelot;  say 

thy  say." 

And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war-horse 

back 
To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief  while 
Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  from  the  dark 

field. 
And  follow'd  to  the  city.     It  chanced 

that  lx)th 
Brake  into  hall  together,  worn  and  pale. 
There  with  her  knights  and  dames  was 

Guinevere. 
Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lancelot 
Sosoonreturn'd,  and  then  on  Pelleas,  him 
Who  hadnotgreeted  her,  but  cast  himself 
Down  on  a  bench, hard-breathing.  "Have 

ye  fought  ? " 
Sheask'dof  Lancelot.   "  Ay,  my  Queen," 

he  said. 
"And   thou   hast    overthrown    him?" 

"Ay,  my  Queen." 
Then  she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  "0  young 

knight. 
Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood  in 

thee  fail'd 


220 


GUINEVEKE. 


So  far  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfrowardly, 
A  Tail  from  him  ? "  Theii,  for  he  answer'd 

not, 
"Or  ha.-t  thou  other  griefs?     If  I,  the 

Queen, 
May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and 

k't  mt;  know." 
Btit  TV'lleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 
She  quail'd  ;  and  he,  hissing  "  1  have  no 

sword," 


Sprang  from  the  door  Into  the  dark.   T 

Queen 
Look'd  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on  he 
And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day 

be: 
And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a  grove  all  so 
Ikneath  the  shadow  of  some  Lird  of  pre 
Then  a  long  silence  came  upon  the  ha 
And  Modred  thought,  ' '  The  time  is  ha 

at  hand." 


GUINEVERE. 


Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court, 

and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  nonewithher  save  alittlemaid, 
A  novice  :  one  low  light  betwixt  them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd   by  the   creeping  mist,  for  all 

abroad. 
Beneath  a  moon  imseen  albeit  at  full, 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the 

face. 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land 

was  still. 


For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause 

flight 
Sir  Modred  ;  he  that  like  si  subtle  be! 
Lay  couchant   with  his  eyes  upon  t 

throne, 
Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance  :  : 

this. 
He   chill'd   the  popular  praises  of  t 

King 
With   silent   smiles   of  slow  dispara| 

ment ; 
And  tam])er'd  with  the  Lords  of  the  Wh 

Horse, 


GUINEVERE. 


221 


Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left ;  and 

sought 
To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 
Serving  his  traitorous  end  ;  and  all  his 

aims 
Were  sharpen'd  by  strong  hate  for  Lance- 
lot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  mom  when  all 

the  court, 
Green  -  suited,    but  with  plumes  that 

mock'd  the  may. 
Had  I  een,  their  wont,  a-maying  and  re- 
turn'd, 
That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and 

eye, 
Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden-wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might. 
And  saw  the  Queen  who  sat  betwixt  her 

best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  Ind  the  worst ;  and  more  than 

this 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied  where  he  couch'd,  and  as  the  gar- 
dener's hand 
Pick  s  from  the  cole  wort  a  green  caterpillar, 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering 

grove 
Of  grass  s  Lancelot  pluck'd  him  by  the 

heel, 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way  ; 
But  when  he  knew  the  Prince  tho'  marr'd 

with  dust. 
He,  reverencingking's blood  in  abad  man. 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and  these 
Full  knightly  without  scorn  ;  for  in  those 

days 
No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  in 

scorn  ; 
But,  if  a  man  were  halt  or  hunch'd,  in 

him 
By  those  whom  God  had  made  fuU-lknb'd 

and  tall. 
Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  defect, 
And  he  was  answer'd  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.    So  Sir  Lancelot  holp 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice  or 

thrice 
Full  sharjily  smote  his  knees,  and  smiled, 

and  went : 
But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart. 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day  long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 


But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she 

laugh'd 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dusty  fall, 
Then  shudder'd,  as  the  village  wife  who 

cries 
"I  shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my 

grave  "  ; 
Then  laugh'd  again,  but  faintlier,  for  in- 
deed 
She  half- foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle  beast, 
Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found, 

and  hers 
Would  be  for  evermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in 

Hall, 
Or  elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy  face, 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent 

eye: 
Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that  tend 

the  soul, 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot  die. 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.     Many  a  time 

for  hours, 
Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the  King, 
In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and 

went 
Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear — 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking 

doors. 
Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a  haunted  house. 
That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  the 

walls  — 
Held  her  awake  :   or  if  she  slept,   she 

dream'd 
An  awful  dream  ;  for  then  she  seem'd  to 

stand 
On  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting  sun. 
And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made  at  her 
A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow  flew 
Before  it,  till  it  touch'd  her,  and  she 

turn'd  — 
When  lo  !  her  own,  that  broadening  from 

her  feet. 
And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land, 

and  in  it 
Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a  cry  she  woke. 
And  all  this  trouble  did  not  passbutgrew ; 
Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless 

King, 
And  trustful  courtesies  of  household  life, 
Became  her  bane  ;  and  at  the  last  she  said, 
"  0  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine  own 

land. 
For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again. 
And  if  we  meet  again,  some  evil  chance 


222 


GUINEVERE. 


:  Will  make  the  smonldering  scandal  break 

and  blaze 
Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the  King. " 
And   Lancelot   ever   promised,   but   re- 

main'd. 
And  still  they  met  and  met.     A^in  she 

said, 
"  0  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee 

hence." 
And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a  night 
(When  the  good  King  should  not  be  there) 

to  meet 
And  part  for  ever.    Passion-pale  they  met 
And  greeted  :  hands  in  hands,  and  eye 

to  eye. 
Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they  sat 
Stammering  and  staring :  it  was  their  last 

hour, 
A  madness  of  farewells.     And  Modi'ed 

brought 
His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the  tower 
For  testimony ;  and  crying  with  full  voice 
"  Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at  last," 

aroused 
Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lionlike 
Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  headlong, 

and  he  fell 
Stunn'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and  bare 

him  off 
And  all  was  still :  then  she,  "  the  end  is 

come 
And  I  am  shamed  for  ever  "  ;  and  he  said 
"  Mine  be  the  shame  ;  mine  was  the  sin  : 

but  rise. 
And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas  : 
There  will  I  hide  thee,  till  my  life  shall  end, 
There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against  the 

world." 
She  answer'd  "  Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold 

me  so? 
Nay  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  fare- 
wells. 
Would  God,  that  thou  couldst  hide  me 

from  myself ! 
Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  %vife,  and  thou 
Unwedded  :  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly, 
For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary. 
And  bide  my  doom."     So  Lancelot  got 

her  horse. 
Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his  own, 
And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way. 
There  ki.ss'd,  and  parted  weeping  :  for  he 

past. 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen, 
Back  to  his  land  ;  but  she  to  Almesbury 
Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste 

and  weald, 


And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and 

weald 
Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard 

them  moan  : 
And  in  herself  she  moan'd  "  too  late,  too 

late  !  " 
Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the 

morn, 
A  blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying  high, 
Croak'd,  and  she  thought  "he  spies  a 

field  of  death ; 
For  now  the  Heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea, 
Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the 

court. 
Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the  land." 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury  she 

spake 
There  to  the  nuns,  and. said,   "mine 

enemies 
Pursue  me,  but,  0  peaceful  Sisterhood, 
Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor  ask 
Her  name,  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her 

time 
To  tell  you" :  and  her  beauty,  grace,  and 

power 
Wrought  as  a  charm  upon  them,  and  they 

spared 
To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  the 

nuns ; 
Nor  with  them  mix'd,  nor  told  her  name, 

nor  sought. 
Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  for  shrift, 
But  communed  only  with  the  little  maid. 
Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heed- 
lessness 
Which  often  lured  her  from  herself ;  but 

now. 
This  night,  a  rumor  wildly  blown  about 
Came,  that  Sir  Modred  had  usurped  the 

realm. 
And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen,  while 

the  King 
Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot :  then  she 

thought, 
"With  what  a  hate  the  people  and  the 

King 
Must  hate  me,"  and  bow'd  down  upon 

her  hands 
Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook'd 
No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  "late  !  so 

late  ! 
What  hour,  I  wonder,  now  ? "  and  when 

she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 


GUINEVERE. 


223 


An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her  ;  "  late, 

so  late  ! " 
Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen  look'd 

up,  and  said, 
"0  maiden,  if  indeed  ye  list  to  sing, 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may 

weep." 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little 

maid. 

"Late,  late,  so  late!   and  dark  the 
night  and  chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late  !  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  No  light  had  we  :  for  that  we  do  re- 
pent ; 

And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will 
relent. 

Too  late,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"No  light:    so  late!   and  dark  and 
chill  the  night ! 
0  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light  ! 
Too  late,  too  late  :  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom 
is  so  sweet  ? 
0  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet  ! 
No,  no,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now." 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  passion- 
ately. 
Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remembering 
Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept 

the  sad  Queen. 
Then  said  the  little  novice  prattlingto  her. 

"  0  pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no  more ; 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so 

small, 
Whoknowing  nothingknowsbutto  obey, 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given  — 
Comfort  your  sorrows  ;  for  they  do  not 

flow 
From  evil  done  ;  right  sure  am  I  of  that, 
Whoseeyourtendergraceandstateline.ss. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord 

the  King's, 
And  weighing  find  them  less  ;  for  gone 

is  he 
To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot 

there, 
Round  that  strong  castle  where  he  holds 

the  Queen  ; 
And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge  of 

all. 


The  traitor  —  Ah  sweet  lady,  the  King's 

grief 
For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen, 

and  realm. 
Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any  of 

ours. 
For  me,  I  thank  the  saints,  I  am  not  great. 
For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 
I  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done  : 
None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have  brought 

me  good  : 
But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 
As  gi-eat  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this 

grief 
Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must 

bear. 
That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 
Silence,  they  canuot  weep  behind  a  cloud : 
As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 
About   the  good  King  and  his  wicked 

Queen, 
And  were  I  such  a  King  with  such  a  Queen, 
Well  might  I  wish  to  veil  her  wickedness, 
But  were  I  such  a  King,  it  could  not  be." 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter'd 
the  Queen. 

"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  inno- 
cent talk  ? " 

But  openly  she  answer'd  "  must  not  I, 

If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his 
lord. 

Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the 
realm  ? " 

"Yea,"  said  the   maid,   "this  is  aU 

woman's  grief, 
That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath  wrought   confusion  in  the   Table 

Round 
Which  good  King  Arthur  founded,  years 

ago, 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders, 

there 
AtCamelot,  ere  the  comingof  the  Queen." 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  her- 

.self  again  ; 
"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish 

prate  ? " 
Rut  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her  ; 
"  O  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery  walls. 
What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and 

Tables  Round, 
Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the 

signs 
And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery  ?" 


224 


GUINEVERE. 


To  whom  the  little  novice  gamilously. 
"  Yea,  but  I  know  :  the  land  was  full  of 

signs 
And  wonders  ere  thecomingof  the  Queen. 
So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was  knight 
Of  the  great  Table—  at  the  founding  of  it ; 
And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse,  and 

he  said 
That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe  twain 
After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he  heard 
Strange  music,  and  he  paused  and  turn- 
ing —  there. 
All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyonnesse, 
Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  head. 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  his  feet. 
He  saw  them  —  headland  after  headland 

flame 
Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west  : 
And  iu  the  light  the  white  mermaiden 

swam. 
And  strong  man-breasted  things  stood 

from  the  sea. 
And  sent  a  deep  sea- voice  thro'  all  the  land, 
To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and 

cleft 
Made  answer,  sounding  like  a  distant  horn . 
So  said  my  father —  yea,  and  furthermore, 
Next  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim-lit 

woods. 
Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside 

flower, 
That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistle 

shakes 
When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for  the 

seed  : 
And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his  horse 
The  flickering  faiiy-circle  wheel'd  and 

broke 
Flying,  and  link'd  again,  and  wheel'd 

and  broke 
Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 
A  ^v^eath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the 

hall ; 
And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man  had  dream'd  ;  for  every 

knight 
Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long'd  for  served 
By  hands  unseen  ;  and  even  as  he  said 
Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated  things 
Shoulder'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on  the 

butts 
While  the  wine  ran  :  so  glad  were  spirits 

and  men 
Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen." 


Then  spake  the  Queen  and  somewhat 

bitterl}\ 
"Were  they  so  glad  ?  ill  prophets  were 

they  all. 
Spirits  and  men  :   could  none  of  them 

foresee, 
Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fall'n  upon  the 

realm  ? " 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously  again. 
"  Yea,  one,  a  bard  ;  of  whom  my  father 

said. 
Full  many  a  noble  war-song  had  he  sung, 
Ev'n  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy's  fleet. 
Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming 

wave  ; 
And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 
Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain- 
tops. 
When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the 

hills 
With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back 

like  flame  : 
So  said  my  father  —  and  that  night  the 

bard 
Sang  Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and  sang 

the  King 
As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail'd 

at  those 
Who  call'd  him  the  false  son  of  Gorlois  : 
For  there  was  no  man  knew  from  whence 

he  came  ; 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave 

broke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude 

and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven,  and 

then 
They  found  a  naked  child  upon  the  sands 
Of  dark  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  .sea  ; 
And  that  was  Arthur  ;  and  they  foster'd 

him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  king  : 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
From  all  men,  like  his  biith  ;  and  could 

he  find 
A  woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  he  sang. 
The  twain  together  well  might  change 

the  world. 
But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter'd,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the  harp. 
And   pale   he   turn'd,    and   reel'd,    and 

would  have  fall'n, 
But  that  they  stay'd  him  up  ;  nor  would 

he  tell 


GUINEVERE 


225 


"  The  sands 
Of  dark  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  sea." 


His  vision  ;  but  what  doubt  that  he  fore- 
saw 
This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and  the  Queen? " 

Then  thought  the  Queen  "  lo  !  they 

have  set  her  on, 
Our  simple -seeming  Abbess  and  her  nuns, 
To  play  upon  me,"  and  bow'd  her  head 

nor  spake. 
Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp'd 

hands, 
Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garrulously. 
Said  thfi  good  nuns  would  check  her  gad- 
ding tongue 
Full  often,  "and,  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 
To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me. 
Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  tho  tales 
Which  my  good  father  told,  check  me  too: 
Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  memory, 

one 
OJnoble.st  manners,  tho'  himself  would  say 
Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest ;  and  he  died, 
Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  summei-s 

back. 
And  left  me ;  but  of  others  who  remain, 
And  of  the  two  fii'st-fanie<l  for  courtesy  — 
And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss  — 
But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest,  while 

yo'i  moved 
Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the 

King  ? " 


Then  the  pale  Queen  look'd  up  and  an- 
swer'd  her. 
"  Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a  noble  knight, 
Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the  same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  the  King 
111  open  battle  or  tlie  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these 

two 
Were  the  most  nobly-mannered  men  of 

all ; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind." 

"Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "be  manners 
such  fair  fruit  ? 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thou- 
sand-fold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs, 
The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the  world." 

To  which  a  mouniful  an.swer  made  the 
Queen. 

"0  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery- 
walls, 

Whatknowcst  thou  of  the  world,  and  all 
its  lights 

And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all  the 
woe  ? 

If  ever  Lanct-lot,  that  most  noble  knight, 

Were  for  one  hoar  less  noble  than  liimself, 


226 


GUINEVERK 


Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of 

fire, 
And  weep  for  her,  who  drew  him  to  his 

doom."  * 

"  Yea,"  said  the  little  novice,  "  I  pray 

for  both  ; 
But  1  should  all  as  soon  believe  that  his, 
Sir  Lancelot's,  were  as  noble  as  the  King's, 
As   I   could  think,   sweet  lady,   yours 

would  be 
Such  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful 

Queen." 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler,  hurt 
Whom   she  would  soothe,  and   harm'd 

where  she  would  heal  ; 
For  here  a  sudden  ilush  of  wrathful  heat 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen,  who 

cried, 
"  Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden  more 
For  ever !  thou  their  tool,  set  on  to  plague 
And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 
And   traitress."     When   that  storm  of 

anger  brake 
From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden  rose, 
White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the 

Queen 
As  tremulously  a-s  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,   ready  to  break  and 

fly, 

And  when  the  Queen  had  added  "get 

thee  hence  " 
Fled  frighted.    Then  that  other  left  alone 
Sigh'd,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again. 
Saying  in  hei-self   "the  simple,  fearful 

child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful 

guilt 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  1  repent. 
For  what  is   tnie   repentance    but    in 

thought  — 
Not  ev'n  in  inmost  thought  to  think  again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant 

to  us : 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him  more. 
To  see  him  more." 

And  ev'n  in  saying  this. 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 
Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden  days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lance- 
lot came. 
Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest 

man. 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 


Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Rapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  ou  love 
And  sjwrt  and   tilts  and  pleasure,   (for 

the  time 
Was  maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 

dream'd, ) 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  paradise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd  the  heavens  upbreaking  thro' 

the  earth. 
And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur  raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before  ;  and  on  again. 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they 

saw 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship, 
That  crown'd  the  state  pavilion  of  the 

King, 
Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent  well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in  such 

a  trance, 
And  moving  thro'  the  past  unconsciously. 
Came  to  that  point  where  first  she  saw 

the  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to 

find 
Her   journey   done,    glanced    at    him, 

thought  him  cold. 
High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless,  not 

like  him, 
"Not   like   my  Lancelot" — while   she 

brooded  thus 
And  grew  half-guilty  in  her   thoughts 

again. 
There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the  doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnery 

ran. 
Then  on  a  sudden  a  cry,  "the  King." 

She  sat 
Stiff-stricken,  listening  ;  but  when  armed 

feet 
Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer  doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat  she 

fell. 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the 

floor  : 
There  witli  her  milkwhite  arms  and  shad- 
owy hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the 

King: 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  fnet 
Pause  by  her  ;  then  came  silence,  then 

a  voice. 


GUINEVERE. 


227 


Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho'  changed 
the  King's. 

"Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of 

one 
I  honor' d,  hapj)y,  dead  before  thy  shame  ? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  and 

fire, 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws, 
The  craftof  kindred  and  the  Godless  hosts 
Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern 

Sea. 
Whom   I,  while  yet   Sir  Lancelot,  my 

right  arm, 
The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  abode  with 

me. 
Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of  Christ 
In   twelve  great  battles   ruining   over- 
thrown. 
And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I 

come  —  from  him, 
From  waging  bitterwarwithhim  :  andhe. 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse 

way, 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him  left. 
He  spa.id  to  lift  his  liand  against  the  King 
Who   m-ide   him  knight :   but  many  a 

knight  was  slain  ; 
And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and  kin 
Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own  land. 
And  many  more  when  Modred  raised  re- 
volt. 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with  me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part. 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I 

live. 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming  on. 
Lest  butahairof  thislow  head  be  harm'd. 
Fear  not :  thou  shalt  be  guarded  till  my 

death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet  my 

doom. 
Thou  hast  notraade  my  life  so  sweet  to  me. 
That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to  live; 
For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my  life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  I  show, 
Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou  hast 

sinn'd. 
For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their  law 
Relax'd  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  fiU'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there  a 

deed 
Of  prowess  done  redress'd  a  random  wrong. 


But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew 
The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm  and 

all 
Therealmstogetherundernie,  their  Head, 
In  that  lair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men. 
To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  world. 
And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 
1  made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine  and 

swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience  as 

their  King, 
To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the 

Christ, 
To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 
To  sjieak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it, 
To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity. 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 
And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds. 
Until  they  won  her  ;  for  indeed  I  knew 
Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid. 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But  teach  high  thought,   and  amiable 

words 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame. 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a 

man. 
And  all  this  throve  until  I  wedded  thee  ! 
Believing,  '  lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to  feel 
My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy.' 
Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lance- 
lot ; 
Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  Isolt ; 
Then  others,  followingthese  my  mightiest 

knights. 
And   drawing  foul  ensample  from   fair 

names, 
Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain, 
And  all  thro*  thee !  so  that  this  life  of 

mine 
I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  from  scathe 

and  wrong. 
Not  greatly  care  to  lose  ;  but  rather  think 
How  sadit  were  for  Arthur,  should  he  live. 
To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall, 
And   miss  the  wonted  number  of  my 

knights. 
And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 
As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 
For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left,  could 

speak 
Of  the  j)ure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at 

thee? 
And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 


228 


GUINEVERE. 


Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room 

to  room, 
Aud  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 
In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament, 
Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 
For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not 

love  thy  lord. 
Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for  thee. 
I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 
Yet  must  I  leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy 

shame. 
I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 
Wlio  either  for  his  own  or  children's  sake. 
To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the 

wife 
Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule  the 

house  : 
For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 
Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  pure, 
She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  men, 
Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the 

crowd. 
Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and 

saps 
The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the 

pulse 
With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the 

young. 
Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he  that 

reigns  ! 
Better  the  King's  waste  hearth  and  aching 

heart 
Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light, 
The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their 

bane." 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept 

an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 
Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  warhorse 

neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake  again. 

"Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge 

thy  crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head, 
My  pride  in  hapyuer  summers,  at  my  feet. 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on 

that  fierce  law, 
The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming  death, 
(When  first  I  leanit  thee  hidden  here)  is 

past. 
The  pang  —  which  while  I  weigh'd  thy 

heart  with  one 


Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee. 
Made  my  tears  bum —  is  also  past,  in  part. 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo  !  1  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives  :  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the 

rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved  ? 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not  knowing !  0  imperial-moulded  form, 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore. 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with 

thee  — 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine. 
But  Lancelot's  :   nay,  they  never  were 

the  King's. 
I  cannot  take  thy  hand  ;  that  too  is  flesh, 
And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd  ;  and 

mine  own  flesh, 
Herelookingdown  on  thine  polluted,  cries 
'  I loathethee ' :  yet  notless,  0 Guinevere, 
For  1  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 
My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into 

my  life 
So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 
Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee  still. 
Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul. 
And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure 
We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and 

thou 
Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine, 

and  know 
I  am  thine  husband  —  not  a  smaller  soul. 
Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.     Leave  me 

that, 
I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.     Now  must 

I  hence. 
Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet 

blow  : 
They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine 

hosts 
Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west. 
Where  1  must  stiike  against  the  man 

they  call 
My  sister's  son  —  no  kin  of  mine,  who 

leagues 
With  lords  of  the  White  Horse,  heathen, 

'     and  knights  — 
Traitors — and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet 

myself 
Death,  or  1  know  not  what  mysterious 

doom. 
And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  leam  the 

event ; 
But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again. 
Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more, 
Farewell ! " 


GUINEVERE. 


229 


fi  w^ 


'  And  lo,  he  «at  on  hnrscb.ick  at  the  door  1 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  wih  each  a  light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  ihcni  charge  about  the  Queen." 


And  while  she  j^ovell'd  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er 

her  neck, 
And  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head. 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that 

blest. 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps 

were  gone, 
Bose  the  pali;  Queen,  and  in  her  anguish 

found 
The  casement:  " perad venture "  so  she 

thought, 
"  If  I  n.ightseehisface,  andnot  be  seen." 
And  lo,  he  sat  ou  horseback  at  the  door  ! 


And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a 

light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about 

the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  for  evermore. 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm  was 

lower'd. 
To  which  forcrestthe  golden  dragon  clung 
Of  Britain  ;  so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 
Which  then  was  asan  angel's,  butshesaw, 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the 

liglits, 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pen  dragon  ship 
Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of 

iiie. 


230 


GUINEVERE. 


And  even  then  he  tum'd  ;  and  more  and 

more 
The  moony  vapor  rolling  round  the  King, 
Whoseem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant  in  it, 
Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made  him 

gray 
And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 
Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his  doom. 

Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and 
cried  aloud 

"  0  Arthur  ! "  there  her  voice  brake  sud- 
denly. 

Then  —  as  a  stream  that  spouting  from  a 
cliff 

Fails  in  mid  air,  but  gathering  at  the  base 

Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 
vale  — 

Went  on  in  passionate  utterance. 

"  Gone  —  my  lord  ! 
Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be  slain  ! 
And  he  fogave  me,  and  I  could  not  speak. 
Farewell  ?    I  should  have  answer'd  his 

farewell. 
His  mercy  choked  me.     Gone,  my  lord 

the  King, 
My  own  true  lord  !  how  dare  I  call  him 

mine  ? 
The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me, 
And  makes  me  one  pollution  :  he,  the 

King, 
Call'd  me  polluted  :  shall  I  kill  myself? 
What  help  in  that  ?    I  cannot  kill  my 

sin. 
If  soul  be  soul ;  nor  can  I  kill  my  shame  ; 
No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 
The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks 

to  months, 
The  months  will  add  themselves  and  make 

the  years. 
The  yen  s  will  roll  into  the  centuries. 
And  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 
I  must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 
Let  the  world  be  ;   that  is  but  of  the 

world. 
What  else  ?  what  hope  ?  I  think  there 

was  a  hope, 
Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake  of 

hope  ; 
Hishopehecall'dit ;  but  he  never  mocks. 
For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts. 
And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath  for- 
given 
My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me  hope 
That  in  mine  own  heart  I  can  live  down 


And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heavens 
Before  high  God.     Ah  great  and  gentle 

lord. 
Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a  saint 
Among    his    waning     senses,    to    thy 

knights  — 
To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride,  that 

took 
Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below. 
Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised  the 

height 
To  which  I  would  not  or   I  could  not 

climb  — 
I  thought  I  could  not  breathe  in  that  fine 

air 
That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light  — 
1  wanted  wannfli  and  color  which  I  found 
In  Lancelot  —  now  I  see  thee  what  thou 

art, 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human 

too. 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.   Is  there  none 
Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  tho'  so 

late? 
Now  —  ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battle  ? 

none  : 
Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life. 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.  Ah  my  God, 
What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy  fair 

world. 
Had   I  but  loved  thy  highest  creature 

here  ?  " 
It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  highest : 
It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I  known  : 
It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  1 

seen. 
We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when 

we  see  it. 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another." 

Here  her  hand 
Grasp'd,  made  her  veil  her  eyes  :   she 

look'd  and  saw 
The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and  said 

to  her 
"  Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  /not forgiven  ?" 
Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  holy  nuns 
All  round  her,  weeping  ;  and  her  heart 

was  loosed 
Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these  and 

said. 

"  Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked  one, 
who  broke 

The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the  King. 

0  shut  me  round  with  narrowing  nun- 
nery-walls. 


THE   PASSING   OF   ARTHUR. 


231 


Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying 

'shame.' 
I  must  not  scorn  myself :  he  loves  me 

still. 
Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me 

still.    ■ 
So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me 
Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with 

you  ; 
Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a  nun  like 

you  ; 
Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with 

your  feasts  ; 
Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at 

your  joys, 
But  not  rejoicing  ;  mingle  with  your  rites; 
Pray  and  be  pray'd  for  ;  lie  before  your 

shrines  ; 
Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house  ; 
Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute 

dole 
To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  his  eyes 
Who  ransom'd  tis,  and  baler  too  than  I  ; 
And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and  heal 

mine  own  ; 
And  sowearoutinalmsdeed  and  in  prayer 
The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous  day. 
Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the 

King." 

She  said  :  they  took  her  to  themselves ; 
and  she 

Still  hoping,  fearing  "  is  it  yet  too  late  ?" 

Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  Ab- 
bess died. 

Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her  pure 
life, 

And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her. 

And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had 
borne. 

Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess, 
lived 

For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an  Ab- 
bess, past 

To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is 
peace. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
First  made  and  latest  left  ofall  the  knights. 
Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than  a 

voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  fa<;es,  other 

minds. 


Before  that  last  weird  battle  in  the  west 
There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Gawain 

kill'd 
In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain 

blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 
Went  shrilling  "Hollow,  hollow  all  de- 
light ! 
Hail,  king !  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 

away. 
Farewell !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee. 
And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering  wind. 
And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  delight. " 
And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds  that 

change 
Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their 

way 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind 

the  dream 
Shrill'd  ;  but  in  going  mingled  with  dim 

cries 
Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills, 
As  of  some  lonely  city  sack'd  by  night. 
When  all  is  lost,   and  wife  and  child 

with  wail 
Pass   to  new  lords ;  and  Arthur  woke 

and  call'd, 
"Who  spake  ?    A  dream.     0  light  upon 

the  wind. 
Thine,    Gawain,    was    the   voice  —  are 

these  dim  cries 
Thine  ?   or   doth   all    that   haunts  the 

waste  and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with 

me?" 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and 

spake  : 
"0  me,  my  king,  let  pass  whatever  will. 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the 

field; 
But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 

cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 
For  ever  :  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not  pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 

death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man  ; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him, 

but  rise  — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west. 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people  and 

knights 
Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but 

gross(fr  grown 
Thau   hcatluMi,    spitting  at  their   vows 

and  tliee. 


232 


THE  PASSING   OF   ARTHUR. 


Right  well  in  heart  they  kuow  thee  for 

the  king. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old." 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

veie  : 
"  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove 

in  youth. 
And  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman 

wall, 
And  shook  him  thro'  the  north.      Ill 

doom  is  mine 
To  war  against  my  jjeople  and  my  knights. 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  him- 
self. 
And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me 

once,  the  stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  ray  death 

to  me. 
Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way 
Thro'  this  b.ind  haze,  which  ever  since  I 

saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 
Hath  fjlded  in  the  passes  of  the  world." 

Then  rose  the  king  and  moved  his  host 

by  night. 
And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league  by 

league, 
Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonnesse  — 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again  ; 
AVhere  fragments   of  forgotten   peoples 

dwelt, 
And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a  coast 
Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  ])hantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  uo  more. 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  king  ; 
And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  light 

of  heaven 
Burn'd  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  J'ear, 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they 

closed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 

west. 
A  deathwhitemistsleptoversand  and  sea : 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 

it,  drew 
Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart 

was  cold 
With  formless  fear  :  and  ev'n  on  Arthur 

fell 
Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he 

fought, 


For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the 

mist. 
And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom 

he  slew  ; 
And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth. 
And  some  beheld  the  faeces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle  ;  and  in  the  mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base, 
And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in 

single  fights, 
And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 
Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the 

hard  mail  hewn, 
Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands, 

the  crash 
Of  battle-axes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and 

shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling  down 
Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the 

mist ; 
And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor 

knights. 
Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous  blas- 
phemies. 
Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of 

the  lungs 
In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the 

light, 
Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the  dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  after  wail 
Of  sufl'ering,  silence  follows,  or  thro'  death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that 

shoi'e. 
Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething  seas, 
A  dead  hu.sh  fell ;  but  when  the  dolorous 

day 
Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling, 

came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North,  and 

blew 
The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the 

tide 
Rose,  and  the  pale  king  glanced  across 

the  field 
Of  battle :  but  no  man  was  moving  there ; 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon. 
Nor  yet  of  heathen  ;  only  the  wan  wave 
Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and 

down 
Tumbling  the  hollow  helm.ets,    of  the 

fallen. 
And  shiver'd  brands  that  once  had  fought 

with  Rome, 
And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 


THE  PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 


233 


Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  daylong 
Had  held  the  held  of  battle  was  the  King : 

"Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that 

shakes  the  world, 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon 

we  move, 
And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead, 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for 

me  ?  — 
0  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  fall'n 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am, 
Nor  whence  1  am,  nor  whether  1  be  king. 
Behold,  I  seem  but  king  among  the  dead." 

Then   spake  the   bold  Sir  Bedivere : 

"My  King, 
King  everywhere  !  and  so  the  dead  have 

kings. 
There  also  will  I  worship  thee  as  king. 
Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  1  live 
Who  love  thee  ;  but  who  hates  thee,  he 

that  brought 
The  heathen   back   among  us,  yonder 

stands, 
Modred,  unharm'd,  the  traitor  of  thine 

house." 

Then  spake  the  King :  "My house  hath 

been  my  doom. 
But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  house 
Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof 

with  me. 
My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware  my 

vows. 
Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  owu'd 

me  king. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  inmydark  hour. 
When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath 

fail'd, 
That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for 

king. 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry  ; 
And  onelastactof  kinghoodshalt  thou  see 
Yet,  ere  I  pass."     And  uttering  this  the 

king 
Made  at  the  man  :  then  Modred  smote 

his  liege 
Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a  heathen 

sword 
Had  beaten  thin ;  while  Arthur  at  one 

blow, 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself,  he 

fell. 


So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roU'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea  ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fah'u  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord. 
King  Arthur.     Then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep. 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land  : 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  k  nights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such 

a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more ;  but  let  what  will  be, 

be. 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  1  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  remem- 

berest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an 

arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row'd 

across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 

king; 
And,  wheresoever  1  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not  :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring 
me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus, 
Aidless,  alone,   and   smitten   thro'   the 

helm  — 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man  ; 


234 


THE   PASSING   OF   ARTHUR. 


Yet  I  thy  hest  -will  all  perform  at  full, 
"Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee 
word." 

So  saying,  from  the  niin'd  shrine  he 

stept, 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He, 

stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excali- 

bur, 
Ando'erhim,drawingit,  thewintermoon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

ran  forth 
And  sparkled   keen   with  frost  against 

the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz -lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he  stood. 
This  way  and  that  dividing  tb  e  swift  mind. 
In  act  to  throw  :  but  at  the  last  it  .seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterfiags. 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

vere : 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which 

I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast 

heard  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere  : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  Ihe  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale  : 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy 

name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow' d,  either  hand, 


Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  1  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again, 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 
word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere, 
Counting    the    dewy  pebbles,    fix'd    in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  : 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  fi'om  the 

earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 

many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 

were  done  ? 
What  harm,   undone  ?    Deep  harm   to 

disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  akingdemand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  ? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?   But  were  this 

kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms. 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old   man  speak  in  the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  peojile,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded   with  his   own 
conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 
King. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUB. 


235 


Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 
heavily  : 
"What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what 
hast  heard  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 

in  wrath  : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted !  Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art. 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 

hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get 

thee  hence  : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.  The 

great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon, 
And   flashing  round   and  round,   and 

whirl'd  in  an  arch. 
Shot  like  astreamerof  the  northemmorn. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noi-ses  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  : 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 

mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then  spoke   King   Arthur,    drawing 
thicker  breath  : 


' '  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  don  e. 
Speak  out  :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 
or  seen  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 

the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  1  die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  niii-acle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then   with  both   hands   I   flung  him, 

wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 


And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breath- 
ing hard  : 

"  My  end  draws  nigh  ;  't  is  time  that  I 
were  gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 
weight. 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 
die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 

rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  lookingwistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  sjioken,  but  he  found 

not  words  ; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 

one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 

hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 

tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted 

hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd 

the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  car 

"Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge, 


236 


THE  PASSING   OF  AETHUK. 


Cloth'd  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as 

he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him  like 

a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 


Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stera, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms, 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream 

—  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  :  and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver' d  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,   "  Place  me 

in  the  barge  "  ; 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.    There  those 

three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  :  for  all  his  face 

was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  Jhe  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  drops 


Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous 

curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne  —  were  parch'd 

with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the   knightly  growth  that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King  ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shotthro'  thelistsatCamelot,  andcharged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
"Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I 

go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

ej'es  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dis- 
solved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years. 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 

minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the 


"The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new. 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 
Comfort  thyself :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but 

thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for   my  soul.      More   things   are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

day. 


THE  PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 


237 


For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 
goats 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the 
brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 
prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call 
them  friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 
way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 
God. 

But  now  farewell.  I  am  going  a  long 
way 

With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 
doubt)  — 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 

Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard- 
lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  sum- 
mer sea. 

Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 
wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 
sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death. 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 
of  dawn. 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


At  length   he   groan'd,  and   turning 

slowly  clomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag  ; 
Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving 

yet,  and  cried, 
"He  passes  to  be  king  among  the  dead, 
And  after  healing  of  his  giievous  wound 
He  comes  again  ;  but  —  if  he  come  no 

more  — 
0  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black 

boat. 
Who  shriek'd  and  wail'  d,  the  three  whereat 

we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with 

living  light. 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence, 

friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 

need  ? " 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there 

came,  but  faint 
As,  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry. 
Sounds,   as  if  some  fair  city  were  one 

voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about, 

and  clomb 
E'en  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and 

saw, 
Straininghiseyesbeneathan  arch  of  hand, 
Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare 

the  king, 
Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  oH",  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new 

year. 


238 


THE   PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


TO 

HENRY    LUSHINGTON 

THIS    VOLIXXE    IS    INSCRIBED    BY    HIS    FRIEND 

A.   TENNYSON. 


PROLOGUE. 

Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a  summer's  day 
Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of  sun 
Up  to  the  people  :  thither  flock'd  at  noon 
His  tenants,  wife  and  child,  and  thither 

half 
The  neighboring  borough  with  their  In- 
stitute 
Of  which  he  was  the  patron.     I  was  there 
From  college,  visiting  the  son,  —  the  son 
A  Walter  too,  —  with  others  of  our  set. 
Five  others  :  we  were  seven  at  Vivian- 
place. 

And  me  that  morning  Walter  show'd 

the  house, 
Greek,  set  with  busts  :  from  vases  in  the 

hall 
Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier  than 

their  names, 
Grew  side  by  side  ;  and  on  the  pavement 

lay 
Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the 

park, 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones  of 

Time  : 
And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and  age 
Jumbled  together  ;  celts  and  calumets, 
Claymore  andsnowshoe,  toys  in  lava,  fans 
Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries, 
Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in  sphere, 
The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and  battle- 
clubs 
From  the  isles  of  palm  :  and  higher  on 

the  walls. 
Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk  and 

deer. 
His  own  forefathers'  arms  and  armor  hung. 

And  "this"  he  said  "was  Hugh's  at 
Agincourt  ; 
And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph's  at  Ascalon  : 


A  good  knight  he  !  we  keep  a  chronicle 
With  all  about  him"  —  which  he  brought, 

and  I 
Dived  in  a  hoard  of  tales  that  dealt  with 

knights 
Half-legend,   half-historic,   counts    and 

kings 
Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills  and 

died  ; 
And  mixt  with  these,  a  lady,  one  that 

arm'd 
Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro'  the 

gate. 
Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls. 

"  0  miracle  of  women,"  said  the  book, 
"0  noble  heart  who,  being  strait-besieged 
By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his  wish, 
Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn'd  a  sol- 
dier's death. 
But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem'd  as 

lost  — 
Her  statiaremore  than  mortal  in  the  burst 
Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on  fire — 
Brake  with  a  blast  of  trumpets  from  the 

gate, 
And,  falling  on  them  like  a  thunderbolt. 
She  trampled  some  beneath  her  horses' 

heels. 
And  some  were  whelm'd  with  missiles  of 

the  wall. 
And  some  were  push'd  with  lances  from 

the  rock. 
And  part  were  drown'd  within  the  whirl- 
ing brook  : 
0  miracle  of  noble  womanhood  !  " 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chronicle; 
And,  I  all  rapt  in  this,  "Come  out,"  he 

said, 
"  To  the  Abbey  :  there  is  Aunt  Elizabeth 
And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest. "  We  went 


^> 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


239 


(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger  in  it) 
Down  thro'  the  park  :  strange  was  the 

sight  to  me  ; 
For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur' d, 

sown 
With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 
There  moved  the  multitude,  a  thousand 

heads : 
The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 
Taught  them  with  facts.     One  rear'd  a 

font  of  stone 
And  drew,  from  butts  of  water  on  the  slope, 
The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing  now 
A  twisted  snake,  and  now  a  rain  of  pearls, 
Or  steep-up  spout  whereon  the  gilded  ball 
Danced  like  a  wisp  :  and  somewhat  low- 
er down 
A  man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  vials 

fired 
A  cannon  :  Echo  answer'd  in  her  sleep 
From  hollow  fields  :  and  here  were  tele- 
scopes 
For  azure  views ;  and  there  a  group  of 

girls 
In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric  shock 
Dislink'd  with  shrieks  and  laughter : 

round  the  lake 
Alittle  clock-work  steamerpaddling  plied 
And  shook  the  lilies  :  perch'd  about  the 

knolls 
A  dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam  : 
A  petty  railway  ran  :  a  fire-balloon 
Rose  gem-like  up  before  the  dusky  groves 
And  dropt  a  fairy  parachute  and  past : 
And  there  thro'  twenty  posts  of  telegraph 
They  flash'd  a  saucy  message  to  and  fro 
Between  the  mimic  stations ;  so  that  sport 
Went  hand  in  hand  with  Science  ;  other- 
where 
Pure  sport :  a  herd  of  boys  with  clamor 

bowl'd 
And  stump'd  the  wicket ;  babies  roll'd 

about 
Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass ;  and  men 

and  maids 
Arranged  a  country  dance,  and  flew  thro' 

light 
And  shadow,  while  the  twangling  violin 
Struck  up  with  Soldier-laddie,  and  over- 
head 
The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  lime 
Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from 
,■  end  to  end. 

V. 
-"  IStrange  was  the  sight  and  smacking  of 

the  time  ; 
And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at  length 


Came  to  the  ruins.    High-arch'd  and  ivy- 

claspt. 
Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire, 
Thro'  one  wide  chasm  of  time  and  frost 

they  gave 
The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house  ;  but  all 

within 
The  sward  was  trim  as  any  garden  lawn : 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
And  Lilia  with  the  rest,  and  lady  friends 
From  neighbor  seats :    and  there  was 

Ralph  himself, 
A  broken  statue  propt  against  the  wall, 
As  ffay  as  any.     Lilia,  wild  with  sport. 
Half  child  half  woman  as  she  was,  had 

wound 
A  scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony  helm, 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk. 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his  ivied 

nook 
Glow  like  a  sunbeam :  near  his  tomb  a 

feast 
Shone,  silver-set ;  about  it  lay  the  guests, 
And  there  we  join'd  them  :  then  the 

maiden  Aunt 
Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from  it 

preach'd 
An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd. 
And  all  things  great ;  but  we,  unwor- 

thier,  told 
Of  college  :  he  had  climb'd  across  the 

spikes, 
And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt 

the  bars, 
And  he  had  breath'd  the  Proctor's  dogs ; 

and  one 
Discuss'd  his  tutor,  rough  to  common 

men. 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a  lord  ; 
And  one  the  Master,  as  a  rogue  in  grain 
Veneer'd  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talk'd,   above  their 

heads  1  saw 
The   feudal   warrior    lady-clad ;    which 

brought 
My  book  to  mind :  and  opening  this  I 

read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that  rang 
With  tilt  and  tourney  ;  then  the  tale  of  her 
That  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls, 
And  much  I  praised  her  nobleness,  and 

"  Where," 
Ask'd  Walter,  patting  Lilia'shead  (she  lay 
Beside  him)  "lives  there  such  a  woman 

now  > " 


240 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


Quick  answer'd  Lilia  "  There  are  thou- 
sands now 
Such  women,  but  convention  beats  them 

down  : 
It  is  but  bringing  up ;  no  more  than  that : 
You  men  have  done  it :  how  I  hate  you  all ! 
Ah,  were  1  something  great !  I  wish  I  were 
Some  mighty  poetess,  I  would  shame  you 

then, 
That  love  to  keep  us  children  !  0  I  wish 
That  I  were  some  great  princess,  I  would 

build 
Far  off  from  men  a  college  like  a  man's. 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  that  men  are 

taught ; 
We  are  twice  as  quick  ! "     And  here  she 

shook  aside 
The  hand  that  play'd  the  patron  with 

her  curls. 

And  one  said  smiling  "  Pretty  were  the 

sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex, 

and  flaunt 
With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for 

deans. 
And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their  golden 

hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty 

gowns. 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths,  or 

Ralph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  comer  ;  yet  I  fear. 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood. 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the 

nest, 
Some  boy  would  spy  it." 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal'd  foot  : 
"That's  your  liglit  way  ;  but  I  would 

make  it  death 
For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us." 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself  she 

laugh'd  ; 
A  rosebud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns, 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make 

her,  she  : 
But  Walter  hail'd  a  score  of  names  upon 

her. 
And  "petty  Ogress,"  and  "ungrateful 

Puss"," 
And   swore  he   long'd   at  college,  only 

long'd, 
All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 
They  boated  and  they  cricketed ;  they 

talk'd. 


At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics  ; 

They  lost  their  weeks;  they  vext  the  souls 
of  deans ; 

They  rode  ;  they  betted  ;  made  a  hun- 
dred friends. 

And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying 
terms. 

But  miss'd  the  mignonette  of  Vivian- 
place, 

The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.     Thus  he 
spoke, 

Part  banter,  part  affection. 

"Tnie,"  she  said, 

"  We  doubt  not  that.     0  yes,  you  miss'd 
us  much. 

I  '11  stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you 
did." 

She  held  it  out ;  and  as  a  parrot  turns 
Up  thro'  gilt  wires  a  crafty  loving  eye. 
And  takes  a  lady's  finger  with  all  care. 
And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for 

harm. 
So  he  with  Lilia's.    Daintily  she  shriek'd 
And  wrung  it.   "Doubt  my  word  again!" 

he  said. 
"Come,  listen  !  here  is  proof  that  you 

were  miss'd : 
We  seven  stay'd  at  Christmas  up  to  read  ; 
And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to  read  : 
The  hard-grain'd  Muses  of  the  cube  and 

square 
Were  out  of  season  :  never  man,  I  think. 
So  moulder'd  in  a  sinecure  as  he  : 
For  while  our  cloisters  echo'd  frosty  feet, 
And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare 

as  brooms. 
We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you 

all 
In  wassail ;  often,  like  as  many  girls  — 
Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yews  of  home  — 
As  many  little  trifling  Lilias  —  play'd 
Charades  and  riddlesas  at  Christmas  here. 
And  what 's  my  thought  and  tvlien  and 

where  and  how, 
And  often  told  a  tale  from  mouth  to  mouth 
As  here  at  Christmas." 

She  remember'd  that  : 
A  pleasant  game,  she  thought  :  she  liked 

it  more 
Than  magic  music,  forfeits,  all  the  rest. 
But  these  —  what  kind  of  tales  did  men 

tell  men, 
She  wonder'd,  by  themselves  ? 

A  half-disdain 
Perch'd  on  the  pouted  blossom  of  her  lips  : 
And  Walter  nodded  at  me  ;  "  if^e  began, 


THE  PRINCESS  :  A  MEDLEY. 


241 


The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn ;  and 

so 
We  forged  a  sevenfold  story.     Kind  ? 

what  kind  ? 
Chimeras,  crotchets,  Christmas  solecisms, 
Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to  kill 
Time  by  the  fire  in  winter." 

"Kill  him  now. 
The  tyrant !    kill  him  in  the  summer 

too," 
Said  Lilia  ;  "Why  not  now, "  the  maiden 

Aunt. 
"  Why  not  a  summer's  as  a  winter's  tale  ? 
A  tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time. 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the 

place 
Heroic,  for  a  hero  lies  beneath. 
Grave,  solemn  ! " 

Walter  warp'd  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that  I 

laugh'd 
And  Lilia  woke  with  sudden-shrilling 

miilh 
An  echo  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker, 
Hid  in  the  ruins  ;  till  the  maiden  Aunt 
(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch'd  her 

face 
With  color)  tum'd  to  me  with  "  As  you 

will; 
Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  you  will. 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will." 
"Take  Lilia,  then,  for  heroine"  clam- 

or'd  he, 
"And  make  her  some  great  Princess,  six 

feet  high, 
Grand,  epic,  homicidal ;  and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her  ! " 

"Then  follow  me,  the  Prince," 
I  answer' d,  "each  be  hero  in  his  turn  ! 
Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a 

dream.  — 
Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  required  — 
But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time 

and  place, 
A  Gothic  ruin  and  a  Grecian  house, 
A  talk  of  college  and  of  ladies'  rights, 
A  feudal  knight  in  silken  ma.squerade, 
And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  exper- 
iments 
For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had  burnt 

them  all  — 
This  were  a  medley  !  we  should  have  him 

back 
Who  told  the  '  Winter's  tale '  to  do  it 

for  us. 
No  matter  :  we  will  say  whatever  comes. 
And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will, 


From  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a  song 
To  give  us  breathing-space." 

So  I  began. 
And  the  rest  follow'd :  and  the  women  sang 
Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the  men. 
Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind  : 
And  here  I  give  the  story  and  the  songs. 


I. 


A  PRii«^  I  was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in 

race. 
Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of  May. 
With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlets,  like  agiri, 
For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern  star. 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our 

house. 
Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-off  grandsire 

burnt 
Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  foretold. 
Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood  should 

know 
The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and  that 

one 
Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows  and 

to  fall. 
For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 
And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more  or 

less, 
An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the  house. 
Myself  too  had  weird  seizures,  Heaven 

knows  what : 
On  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and  day. 
And  wliile  I  walk'd  and  talk'd  as  here- 
tofore, 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts. 
And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
0  ur  great  court- Galen  poised  his gil  t-head 

cane. 
And  paw'd    his    beard,    and  mutter'd 

"catalepsy." 
My   mother  pitying  made  a   thousand 

prayers  ; 
My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint. 
Half-canonized  by  all  that  look'd  on  her. 
So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tenderness  : 
But  mv  good  father  thought  a  king  a 

king  ; 
He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the  house ; 
He  held  his  sceptre  like  a  i)edant's  wand 
To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms  and 

hands 
Reach'd  out,  and  pick'd  offenders  from 

the  mass 
For  judgment. 


242 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Now  it  chanced  that  I  had  been, 
While  life  was  yet  in  bud  and  blade,  be- 

troth'd 
Toone,  a  neighboring  Princess  :  she  to  me 
Was  proxy-wedded  with  a  bootless  calf 
At  eight  years  old  ;  and  still  from  time 

to  time 
Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from  the 

South, 
And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puissance ; 
And  still  I  wore  her  picture  by  my  heart, 
And  one  dark  tress  ;  and  all  arospd  them 

both 
Sweet  thoughts  would  swarm  as  bees  about 

their  q^ueen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that  I 

should  wed, 
My  father  sent  ambassadors  with  furs 
And  jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch  her :   these 

brought  back 
A  present,  a  great  labor  of  the  loom  ; 
And  therewithal    an  answer  vague  as 

wind : 
Besides,  they  saw  the  king  ;  he  took  the 

gifts  ; 
He  said  there  was  a  compact ;  that  was 

true  : 
Butthenshehad  awill ;  was  he  to  blame  ? 
And  maiden  fancies  ;  loved  to  live  alone 
Among  her  women  ;  certain,  would  not 

wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room  I 

stood 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  my  two 

friends  : 
The  first,  a  gentleman  of  broken  means 
(His  father's  fnnlt)  but  given  to  starts 

and  bursts 
Of  revel ;  and  ihe  last,  my  other  heart, 
And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we  moved 
Together,  twinn'd  as  horse's  ear  and  eye. 

Now,  while  they  spake,   I   saw  my 

father's  face 
Growlong  and  troubled  like  arisingmoon. 
Inflamed  with  wrath  ;  he  started  on  his 

feet. 
Tore  the  king's  letter,  snow'd  it  down, 

and  rent 
The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro'  warp  and 

woof 
From  skirt  to  skirt  ;  and  at  the  last  he 

sware 
That  he  would  send  a  hundred  thousand 

men. 


And  bring  her  in  a  whirlwind  .  then  he 

chew'd 
The  thrice-turn'd  cud  of   wrath,   and 

cook'd  his  spleen. 
Communing  with  his  captains  of  the  war. 

At  last  I  spoke.     "My  father,  let  mo 

go- 
It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a  king, 
Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hospi- 
table : 
Or,  maybe,  I  myself,  my  bride  once  seen, 
Whate'er  my  grief  to  find  her  less  than 

fame. 
May  rue  the  bargain  made. "    And  Flo- 
rian said  : 
"  1  have  a  sister  at  the  foreign  court, 
Who  moves  about  the  Princess  ;   she, 

you  know, 
Who  wedded  with  a    nobleman  from 

thence  : 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I  hear, 
The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land  : 
Thro'   her  this  matter  might  be  sifted 

clean." 
And  Cyril  whisper'd  :  "Take  me  with 

you  too." 
Then  laughing   "what,  if  these  weird 

seizures  come 
Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one  near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the 

truth  ! 
Take  me  :  I  '11  serve  you  better  in  a  strait ; 
I   grate   on   rusty  hingee    here "  :   but 

"No  !" 
Eoar'd  the  rough  king,  "you  shall  not ; 

we  ourself 
Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies  dead 
In  iron  gauntlets  :  break  the  council  up." 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I  rose  and 
past 

Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about  the 
town  ; 

Found  a  still  place,  and  pluck'd  her  like- 
ness out ; 

Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch' d  it  lying 
bathed 

In  the  green  gleam  ofdewy-tassell'd  trees : 

What  were  those  fancies?  wherefore  break 
her  troth  ? 

Proud  look'd  the  lips  :  but  while  I  medi- 
tated 

A  wind  arose  and  rush'd  upon  the  South, 

And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and 
the  shrieks 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


248 


Of  the  wild  woods  toj»ether  ;  and  a  Voice 
Went  with  it,  "  Follow,  follow,  thoushalt 
win." 

Then,  ere  thesilver  sickleof  thatmonth 
Became  her  golden  shield,  I  stole  from 

court 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  unperceived, 
Cat-footed  thro'  the  town  and  half  in 

dread 
To  hear  my  father's  clamor  at  our  backs 
With  Ho  !  from  some  bay-window  shake 

the  night ; 
But  all  was  quiet :  from  the  bastion'd 

walls 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we 

dropt. 
And  flying  reach'd  the  frontier  :  then  we 

crost 
To  a  livelier  land  ;  and  so  by  tilth  and 

grange. 
And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wilder- 
ness, 
We  gain'd  the  mother-city  thick  with 

towers. 
And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the  king. 

HisnamewasGama ;  crack'dand  small 
his  voice. 

But  blaiul  the  smile  that  like  a  wrink- 
ling wind 

On  g'assy  water  drove  his  cheek  in  lines  ; 

A  little  dry  old  man,  without  a  star, 

Not  likeaking  :  three  days  hefe^sted  us, 

And  on  the  fourth  1  spake  of  why  we 
came. 

And  my  betroth'd.  "You  do  us.  Prince," 
lie  said. 

Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 

"  Allnonor.  We  remember  love  ourselves 

In  our  sweet  youth  :  there  did  a  com- 
])act  pass 

Long  summers  back,  a  kind  of  cere- 
mony— 

I  think  the  year  in  which  our  olives  fail'd. 

1  would  you  had  her.  Prince,  with  all 
my  heart. 

With  my  full  heart :  but  there  were 
widows  here. 

Two  widows,  I^ady  Psyche,  Lady  Blanche; 

They  fed  her  theoiies,  in  and  out  of  place 

Maintaining  that  with  equal  husbandry 

The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 

They  harp'd  on  this  ;  with  this  our  ban- 
quets rang ; 

Our  dances  broke  and  buzz'd  in  knots  of 
talk; 


Nothing  but  this  ;  my  very  ears  were  hot 
To  hear  them  :  knowledge,  so  my  daugh- 
ter held. 
Was  all  in  all  :  they  had  but  been,  she 

thought. 
As  children  ;  they  must  lose  the  child, 

assume 
The  woman  :  then.  Sir,  awful  odes  she 

wrote. 
Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated  of. 
But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful ;  odes 
About  this  losing  of  the  child ;  and  rhymes 
And  di.smal  lyrics,  prophesying  change 
Beyond  all  reason  :  these  the  women  sang ; 
And   they  that   know  such   things  —  I 

sought  but  peace  ; 
No  critic  I  —  would  call  them  master- 
pieces : 
They  master'd  me.    At  last  she  be^'d  a 

boon 
A  certain  summer-palace  which  I  have 
Hard  by  your  father's  frontier  :  I  said  no, 
Yet  beingan  easy  man,  gave  it:  and  there, 
All  wild  to  found  an  University 
For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled  ;  and 

more 
We  know  not,  —  only  this  :  they  see  no 

men. 
Not  ev'n  her  brother  Arac,  nor  the  twins 
Her  brethren,  tho'  they  love  her,  look 

upon  her 
As  on  a  kind  of  paragon  ;  and  I 
(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loath 

to  breed 
Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine  :  but 

since 
(And  I  confess  with  right)  you  think  me 

bound 
In  some  sort,  I  can  give  you  letters  toher ; 
And  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  rate  your 

chance 
Almost  at  naked  nothing." 

Thus  the  king ; 
And  I,  tho'  nettled  that  he  seem'd  to  slur 
With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courtesies 
Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all 

frets 
But  chafing  me  on  fire  to  find  my  bride) 
Went  forth  again  with  both  my  friends. 

We  rode 
Many  a  long  league  back  to  the  North. 

At  last 
From  hills,  that  look'd  across  a  land  of 

hope, 
We  dropt  with  evening  on  a  nistic  town 
Set  in  a  gleaming  river's  crescent-curve, 
Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties  ; 


244 


THE   PEINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


There,  enter'd  an  old  hostel,  call'd  mine 

host 
To  council,  plied  him  with  liis  richest 

wines. 
And  show'd  the  late-writ  letters  of  the 

He  with  a  long  low  sibilation,  stared 
As  blank  as  death  in  marble ;  then  ex- 

claim'd 
Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 
For  any  man  to  go  :  but  as  his  brain 
Began  to  mellow,  "  If  the  king,"  he  said, 
"  Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound  to 

speak  ? 
The  king  would  bear  him  out "  ;  and  at 

the  last  — 
The  sflmmer  of  the  vine  in  all  his  veins  — 
"  No  doubt  that  we  might  make  it  worth 

his  while. 
She  once  had  past  that  way  ;  he  heard 

her  speak  ; 
She  scared  him ;  life !  he  never  saw  the  like; 
She  look'd  as  grand  as  doomsday  and  as 

grave  : 
Andhe,  he  reverenced  hisliege-lady  there; 
He  always  m  ade  a  point  to  post  with  mares ; 
His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were 

the  boys  : 
The  land,  he  understood,  for  miles  about 
Was  till'd  by  women  ;  all  the  swine  were 

sows, 
And  all  the  dogs  "  — 

But  while  he  jested  thus, 
A  thought  flash' d  thro'  me  which  I  clothed 

in  act, 
Kemembering  how  we  three   presented 

Maid 
Or  Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide  of 

feast. 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father's  court. 
We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female 

gear  ; 
Hebroughtit,  andhimself.asighttoshake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter,  holp 
To  lace  us  up,  till,  each,  in  maiden  plumes 
We  rustled  :  him  we  gave  a  costly  bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good 

steeds. 
And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  foUow'd  up  the  river  as  we  rode. 
And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  college 

lights 
Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 
And  linden  alley  :  then  we  past  an  arch, 
Whereon  a  woman-statue  rose  with  wings 


From  four  wing'd   horses  dark   against 

the  stars  ; 
And  some  inscription  ran  along  the  front. 
But  deep  in  shadow :  further  on  we  gain'd 
A  little  street  half  garden  and  half  house ; 
But  scarce  could  hear  each  other  speak 

for  noise 
Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  ham- 
mers falling 
On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and  stir 
Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  showering 

down 
In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the  rose  : 
And  all  about  us  peal'd  the  nightingale. 
Rapt  in  her  song,  andcarelessof  thesnare. 

There  stood  a  bust  of  Pallas  for  a  sign. 
By  two  sphere  lamps  blazon'dlike  Heaven 

and  Earth 
With  constellation  and  with  continent. 
Above  an  entry  :  riding  in,  we  call'd  ; 
A  plump-arm'd  Ostleress  and  a  stable 

wench 
Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help'd  us 

down. 
Then  stept  a  buxom  hostess  forth,  and 

sail'd, 
Full-blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which 

gave 
Upon  a  pillar'd  porch,  the  bases  lost 
In  laurel :  her  we  ask'd  of  that  and  this. 
And  who  were  tutors.   "  Lady  Blanche ' 

she  said, 
"And   Lady   Psyche."     "Which   was 

prettiest, 
Best-natured  ? "  "Lady Psyche."  "Hers 

are  we," 
One  voice,  we  cried  ;  and  I  sat  down  and 

wrote, 
In  such  a  hand  as  when  a  field  of  com 
Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring  East ; 

"  Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  empire 

pray 
Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with 

your  own. 
As  Lady  Psyche's  pupils." 

This  I  seal'd : 
The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a  scroll. 
And  o'er  his  head  Uranian  Venus  hung. 
And  raised  the  blinding  bandage  from 

his  eyes  : 
I  gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn  ; 
And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I 

seem'd 
To  float  about  a  glimmering  night,  and 

watch 


THE  PKINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


245 


A  full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moonlight, 

swell 
On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it  was 

rich. 


As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears. 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why. 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 
And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears  ! 
For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
0  there  above  the  little  grave. 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


11. 


At  break  of  day  the  College  Portress  came : 
She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 
The  lilac,  with  a  silkeu  hood  to  each. 
And  zoned  with  gold ;  and  now  when 

these  were  on, 
And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk  cocoons, 
She,  curtseying  her  obeisance,  let  us  know 
The  Princess  Ida  waited  :  out  we  paced, 
I  first,  and  following  thro'  the  porch  that 

sang 
All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a  court 
Compact  with  lucid  marbles,  boss'd  with 

lengths 
Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings  gay 
Betwixt  the  pillara,  and  with  great  urns 

of  flowers. 
The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group'd  in 

threes, 
Enring'd  a  billowing  fountain  in  the  midst ; 
And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges  lay 
Or  book  or  lute  ;  but  hastily  we  past. 
And  up  a  flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a  board  by  tome  and  paper  sat, 
With  two  tame  leopards  couch'd  beside 

her  throne 
All  beauty  cornpass'd  in  a  f(3male  form. 
The  Princess  ;  liker  to  the  inhabitant 
Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the  Sun, 
Than  our  man's  earth ;  such  eyes  were 

in  her  head, 
And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breathing 

down 


From  over  her  arch'd  brows,  with  every 

turn 
Lived  thro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long 

hands. 
And  to  her  feet.     She  rose  her  height, 

and  said : 

"  We  give  you  welcome  :  not  without 

redound 
Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye  come. 
The  first-fruits  of  the  stranger :  aftertime, 
And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round 

the  grave, 
WiU  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with 

me. 
What !  are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so  tall?" 
"  We  of  the  court "  said  Cyril.     "  From 

the  court " 
Sheanswer'd,  "then yeknowthe Prince?" 

and  he : 
"  The  climax  of  his  age !  astho'  there  were 
One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  Highness 

that. 
He  worships  your  ideal"  :  she  replied  : 
'*  We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall 

to  hear 
This  barren  verbiage,  current  amongmen, 
Lightcoin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compliment. 
Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless  wilds 

would  seem 
As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of 

power ; 
Your  language  proves  you  still  the  child. 

Indeed, 
We  dream  not  of  him  :  when  we  set  our 

hand 
To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with 

ourself 
Never  to  wed.  You  likewise  will  do  well. 
Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and  fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of  men, 

that  so, 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will, 
You  may  with  those  self-styled  our  lords 

ally 
Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,   scale 

with  scale." 

At  those  high  words,  we  conscious  of 

ourselves, 
Perused  the  matting  ;  then  an  officer 
Ro.se  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such  as 

these  : 
Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with 

home  ; 
Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liberties  ; 
Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any  men  ; 


246 


THE  PEINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


And  many  more,   which   hastily  sub- 
scribed, 
We  enter'd  on  the  boards  :  and  "  Now  " 

she  cried 
"Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not. 

Look,  our  hall ! 
Our  statues  !  —  not  of  those  that  men 

desire, 
Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode, 
Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East ;  but 

she 
That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule,  and 

she 
The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall, 
The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war. 
The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 
Clelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyrene 
That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman 

brows 
Of  Agrippina.   Dwell  with  these,  and  lose 
Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble  forms 
Makes  noble  thro'  the  sensuous  organism 
That  which  is  higher.     0  lift  your  na- 
tures up : 
Embrace  our  aims  :  work  out  your  free- 
dom.    Girls, 
Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a  fountain 

seal'd  : 
Drink  deep,  until  the  habits  of  the  slave. 
The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and  spite 
And  slander,  die.     Better  not  be  at  all 
Than  not  be  noble.     Leave  us  :  you  may 

go: 
To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 
The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before  ; 
For  they  press  in  from  all  the  provinces. 
And  fill  the  hive." 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 
Dismissal  :  back  again  we  crost  the  court 
To  Lady  Psyche's  :  as  we  enter'd  in. 
There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morning 

doves 
That  sun   their  milky  bosoms  on   the 

thatch, 
A  patient  range  of  pupils  ;  she  herself 
Erect  behind  a  desk  of  satin-wood, 
A  quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  falcon- 
eyed. 
And  on  the  hither  side,  or  so  she  look'd. 
Of  twenty  summers.    At  her  left,  a  child. 
In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a  star, 
Her  maiden  babe,  a  double  April  old, 
Aglaia  slept.  We  sat :  the  Lady  glanced  : 
Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  the 

dame 
That  whisper'd  "Asses'  ears  "  among  the 
sedge, 


' '  My  sister. "    "  Comely  too  by  all  that 's 

fair  " 
Said  Cyril.     "  0  hush,  hush  ! "  and  she 

began. 

"  This  world  was  once  a  fluid  haze  of 

light. 
Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry  tides. 
And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling  cast 
The  planets  :  then  the  monster,  then  the 

man  ; 
Tattoo'd  or  woaded,  winter-clad  in  skins, 
Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing  down 

his  mate  ; 
As  yet  we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and  here 
Among  the  lowest." 

Thereupon  she  took 
A  bird's-eye-view  of  all  the  ungracious 

past ; 
Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 
As  emblematic  of  a  nobler  age  ; 
Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke  of 

those 
That  lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucumo  ; 
Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Roman 

lines 
Of  empire,  and  the  woman's  state  in  each. 
How  far  from  just ;  till  warming  with 

her  theme 
She  fulmined  out  her  scorn  of  laws  Salique 
And  little-footed  China,  touch'd  on  Ma- 
homet 
With  much  contempt,  and  came  to  chiv- 
alry : 
When  some  respect,  however  slight,  was 

paid 
To  woman,  superstition  all  awry  : 
However  then  commenced  the  dawn  :  a 

beam 
Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a  land 
Of  promise  ;  fruit  would  follow.     Deep, 

indeed. 
Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first  had 

dared 
To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 
Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and 

assert 
None  lordlier  than  themselves  but  that 

which  made 
Woman  and  man.     She  had  founded ; 

they  must  build. 
Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men 

were  taught : 
Let  them  not  fear  :  some  said  their  heads 

were  less : 
Some  men's  were  small ;  not  they  the 

least  of  men ; 


THE  PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


247 


For  often  fineness  compensated  size  : 
Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand,  and 

grew 
"With  using ;  thence  the  naan's,  if  more 

was  more ; 
He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to  be 
First  in  the  field :  some  ages  had  been  lost ; 
But  woman  ripen'd  earlier,  and  her  life 
Was  longer  ;    and  albeit  their  glorious 

names 
Were  fewer,  scatter'd  stars,  yet  since  in 

truth 
The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man. 
And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 
Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of  the 

glebe. 
But  Homer,  Plato,  Verulam  ;  even  so 
With  woman  :  and  in  arts  of  government 
Elizabeth  and  others  ;  arts  of  war 
The  peasant  Joan  and  others ;  artsof  grace 
Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man  : 
Ana,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left  her 

place. 
And  bow'd  her  state  to  them,  that  they 

might  grow 
To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 
In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from  the 

blight 
Of  ancient  influence  and  scorn. 

At  last 
She  rose  upon  a  wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future  ;  "everywhere 
Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the 

hearth. 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the  world. 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life. 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound 

the  abyss 
Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the  mind  : 
Musician,  painter,  sculptor,  critic,  more  : 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  bounteous 

Earth 
Should  bear  a  double  growth  of  those  rare 

souls. 
Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the  blood 

of  the  w^orld." 

She  ended  here,  and  beckon'd  us  :  the 

rest 
Parted ;  and,  glowing  full-faced  welcome, 

she 
Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving  on 
In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a  boat  • 
TacKs,  and  the  slacken'd  sail  flaps,  all 

her  voice 
Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat, 

she  cried 


"My  brother!"  "Well,  my  sister."  "0" 

she  said 
"  What  do  you  here  ?  and  in  this  dress  ? 

and  these  ? 
Why  who  are  these  ?  a  wolf  within  the 

fold  ! 
A  pack  of  wolves  !  the  Lord  be  gracious 

to  me  ! 
A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot,  to  ruin  all  ! " 
"No    plot,    no    plot,"    he    answer'd. 

"  Wretched  boy. 
How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on  the 

gate. 
Let  no  man  enter  in  on  pain  of 

PEATH  ?" 

"And  if  1  had  "  he  answer'd  "  who  could 

think 
The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 

0  sister.  Sirens  tho'  they  be,  were  such 
As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of 

men  ?" 
"But  you  will  find  it  otherwise  "  she  said. 
"You  jest :  ill  jesting  with  edge-tools  ! 

my  vow 
Binds  me  to  speak,  and  0  that  iron  will. 
That  axelike  edge  untamable,  our  Head, 
The  Princess."     "  Well  then.   Psyche, 

take  my  life. 
And  nail  me  like  a  weasel  on  a  grange 
For  warning  :  bury  me  beside  the  gate, 
And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones  ; 
Here  lies  a  brother  by  a  sister  slain, 
All  for  the  common  good  of  woinankind." 
' '  Let  me  die  too  "  said  Cyril "  having  seen 
And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche." 

I  stnick  in  : 
"Albeit  so  mask'd,  Madam,  I  love  the 

truth  ; 
Receive  it ;  and  in  me  behold  the  Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida  :  here,  for  here  she  wa.s, 
And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left)  I 

came." 
"0  Sir,  0  Prince,  I  have  no  country  ; 

none  ; 
If  any,  this  ;  but  none.     Whate'er  I  was 
Disrooted,  what  I  am  is  grafted  here. 
Affianced,  Sir  ?   love-wliispers  may  not 

breathe 
Within  this  vestal  limit,  and  how  should  I, 
Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live  :  tlie  thun- 
derbolt 
Hangs  silent ;  but  prepare  :  I  speak  ;  it 

falls." 
"  Yet  pause,"  I  said  :  "for  that  inscrip- 
tion there, 

1  think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein, 


2^ 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


Than  in  a  clapper  clapping  in  a  garth. 
To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit ;    if  more 

there  be, 
If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows  ?  war  ; 
Your  own  work  marr'd  :  for  this  your 

Academe, 
Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  halloo 
Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and  pass 
With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to  gild 
A  stormless  summer."  "Let  the  Princess 


Of  that "  she  said  :  ' '  farewell  Sir : —  and 

to  you. 
I  shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I  go." 

' '  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche  "  I  rejoin'd, 
"  The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Florian, 
Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father's  hall 
(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle  brow 
Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights) 
As  he  bestrode  my  Graudsire,  when  he 

fell. 
And  all  else  fled  :  we  point  to  it,  and  we 

say. 
The  loyal  warmth  of  Florian  is  not  cold, 
But  branches   current  yet  in  kindred 

veins." 
"Are  you  that  Psyche"  Florian  added 

"she 
With  whom  I  sang  about  the  morning 

hills, 
Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the  purple 

fly, 

And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen  ?  are 

you 
That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throbbing 

brow. 
To  smooth  my  pillow,  mix  the  foaming 

draught 
Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and  read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams  ?  are 

you 
That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  in  one  ? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are  you 

now  ? " 
"  You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said,  "for 

whom 
I  would  be  that  for  ever  which  I  seem, 
Woman,  if  I  might  sit  beside  your  feet. 
And  glean  your  scatter'd  sapience." 

Then  once  more, 
"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche  "  I  began, 
"  That  on  her  bridal  mom  before  she  past 
From  all  her  old  companions,  when  the 

king 
Kiss'd  her  pale  cheek,  declared  that  an- 
cient ties 


Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  southern 

hills; 
That  were  there  any  of  our  people  there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them:  look!  for  such  are  these 

and  I." 
"Are  you  that  Psyche"  Florian  ask'd 

"to  whom, 
Ingentlerdays,  your  arrow-wounded  fawn 
Came  flying  while  you  sat  beside  tlie  well  ? 
The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your  lap, 
And  sobb'd,  and  you  sobb'd  with  it,  and 

the  blood 
Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you 

wept. 
That  was  fawn's  blood,  not  brother's,  yet 

you  wept. 
0  by  the  bright  head  of  my  little  niece, 
You  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are  you 

now  ?" 
"  You  are  that  Psyche  "  Cyril  said  again, 
"  The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little  maid. 
That  ever  crow'd  for  kisses." 

"Out  upon  it !  " 
She  answer' d,  "peace  !  and  why  should 

I  not  play 
The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 
The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind  ? 
Him  you  call  great :  he  for  the  common 

weal. 
The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 
As  I  might  slay  this  child,  if  good  need 

were, 
Slew  both  his  sons  :  and  I,  shall  I,  on 

whom 
The  secular  emancipation  turns 
Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from  right 

to  save 
A  prince,  a  brother  ?  a  little  will  I  yield. 
Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well  for 

you. 
0  hard,  when  love  and  duty  clash  !   I  fear 
My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleck- 
less  ;  yet  — 
Hear  my  conditions  :  promise  (otherwise 
You  perish)  as  you  came,  to  slip  away. 
To-day,  to-morrow,  soon  :  it  shall  be  said, 
These  women  were  too  barbarous,  would 

not  learn  ; 
They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed  us  : 

promise,  all."  • 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised  each  ; 

and  she, 
Like  some  wild  creature   newly-caged, 

commenced 
A  to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


249 


By  Florian  ;  holding  out  her  lily  arms 
Took  both  his  hands,  and  smiling  faintly 

said  : 
"  I  knew  you  at  the  first :  tho'  you  have 

grown 
You  scarce  have  alter'd  :  I  am  sad  and 

glad 
To  see  you,  Florian.    /  give  thee  to  death 
My  brother  !  it  was  duty  spoke,  not  I. 
My  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon  it. 
Our  mother,  is  she  well  ? " 

With  that  she  kiss'd 
His  forehead,  then,  a  moment  after,  clung 
About  him,  and  betwixt  them  blossom'd 

"P  .      <. 

From  out  a  common  vein  of  memory 

Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of  the 

hearth. 
And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious  dews 
Began  to  glisten  and  to  fall  :  and  while 
They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came  a 

voice, 
"  I  brought  a  message  here  from  Lady 

Blanche." 
Back  started  she,  and  turning  round  we 

saw 
The  Lady  Blanche's  daughter  where  she 

stood, 
Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock, 
A  rosy  blonde,  and  in  a  college  gown. 
That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 
(Her  mother's  color)  with  her  lips  apart. 
And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within  her 

eyes, 
As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and  float 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning  seas. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at  the 

door. 
Then   Lady   Psyche    "Ah  —  Melissa^ 

you  ! 
You  heard  us?"  and  Melissa,  "0  pardon 

me  ; 
I  heard,  I  could  not  help  it,  did  not  wish  : 
But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me  not, 
Nor  think  1  bear  that  heart  within  my 

breast, 
Togivethree  gallant  gentlemen  to  death." 
"  I  trust  you '  said  the  other  "for  we  two 
Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm  and 

vine  : 
But  yet  your  mother's  jealous  tempera- 
ment— 
Let  not  your  prudence,  dearest,  drowse, 

or  prove 
The  Danaid  of  a  leaky  vase,  for  fear 
This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I  lose 


My  honor,   these   their  lives."     "Ah, 

fear  me  not " 
Replied  Melissa  "no  —  I  would  not  tell. 
No,  not  for  all  Aspasia's  cleverness. 
No,  not   to   answer,  Madam,  all  those 

hard  things 
That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon." 
"  Be  it  so  "  the  other  "  that  we  still  may 

lead 
The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in  peace, 
For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet." 
Said  Cyril  "  Madam,  he  the  wisest  man 
Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in  halls 
Of  Lebanonian  cedar  :  nor  should  you 
(The'   madam   you  should  answer,  we 

would  ask) 
Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you  came 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you. 
Myself  for  something  more."     He  said 

not  what. 
But  "Th Jinks,"  she  answer' d  "go:  we 

have  been  too  long 
Together :  keepyourhoodsabouttheface; 
They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction  here. 
Speak  little  ;  mix  not  with  the  rest ;  and 

hold 
Your  promise  :  all,  I  trust,  may  yet  be 

well." 

We  turn'd  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the 

child, 
And  held  her  round  the  knees  against 

his  waist. 
And  blew  the  swoU'n  cheek  of  a  tmm- 

peter. 
While  Psyche watch'd  them,  smiling,  and 

the  child 
Push'd  her  flat  hand  against  his  face  and 

laugh'd  ; 
And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  stroU'd 
For  half  the  day  thro'  stately  theatres 
Bench'd  crescent- wise.     In  each  we  sat, 

we  heard 
The  grave  Professor.   On  the  lecture  .slate 
The  circle  rounded  under  female  hands 
With   flawless  demonstration  :  foUow'd 

then 
A  clas.sic  lecture,  rich  in  8entiment|g 
With  scraps  of  thundrous  Epic  liltea  out 
By  violet-nooded  Doctors,  elegies 
And  (quoted  odes,  and  jewels  five-words- 
long 
That  on   the  stretch'd  forefinger  of  all 

Time 
Sparkle  for  ever  :  then  we  dipt  in  all 
That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state, 


250 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind, 
The  morals,  something  of  the  frame,  the 

rock, 
The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell,  the 

flower. 
Electric,  cheinic  laws,  and  all  the  rest, 
And    whatsoever   can  be    taught    and 

known  ; 
Till  like  threo  horses  that  have  broken 

fence. 
And  glutted  all  night  long  breast-deep 

in  com. 
We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge,  and  I 

spoke  : 
"Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well  as 

we." 
"  They  hunt  old  trails  "  said  Cyril  "very 

well  ; 
But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  invent  ? " 
'  Ungracious  I "  answer'd  Florian,  "have 

you  learnt 
iTo  more  from  Psyche's  lecture,  you  that 

talk'd 
The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and  almost 

sad  ? " 
"0  trash"  hesaid"butwithakemelinit. 
Should  I  not  call  her  wise,  who  made  me 

wise  ? 
\nd  learnt  ?    I  learnt  more  from  her  in 

a  flash. 
Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty  hull. 
And  every  Muse  tumbled  a  science  in. 
A  thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these  halls, 
And  round  these  halls  a  thousand  baby 

loves 
fly  twanging  headless   arrows  at  the 

hearts. 
Whence  follows  many  a  vacant  pang ; 

but  0 
With  me.  Sir,  enter'd  in  the  bigger  boy. 
The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted  firm, 
The  long-limb'd  lad  that  had  a  Psyche  too ; 
He  cleft  me  thro'  the  stomacher  ;  and  now 
What  think  you  of  it,  Florian  ?  do  I  chase 
The  substance  or  the  shadow  ?  will  it  hold  ? 
I  have  no  sorcerer's  malison  on  me, 
No  ghostly  hauntingslike his  Highness.  I 
Flatter  myself  that  always  everywhere 
I  know  the  substance  when  1  see  it.  Well, 
Are  castles  shadows  ?  Three  of  them  ?  Is 

she 
The  sweet  proprietress  a  shadow  ?  If  not. 
Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my  tat- 

ter'd  coat  ? 
For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my 

wants, 
And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart, 


And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double 

■worth, 
And  much  1  might  have  said,  but  that 

my  zone 
Unmann'd  me  :  then  the  Doctors  !   0  to 

hear 
The  Doctors  !     0  to  watch  the  thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing !  once  or  twice  I  thotight  to  roar, 
To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my  mane  : 

but  thou, 
Modulate  me,  Soul  of  mincing  mimicry  ! 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon,  my 

throat ; 
Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to  meet 
Star -sisters   answering  under  crescent 

brows  ; 
Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of  man, 

and  loose 
A  flying  charm  of  blushes  o'er  this  cheek. 
Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out  of 

time 
Will  wonder  why  they  came  :  but  hark 

the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go  ! " 

And  in  we  stream'd 
Amongthe  columns,  pacing  staid  and  still 
By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end  to  end 
With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown  and 

fair 
In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist, 
The  long  hall  glitter'd  like  a  bed  of  flowers. 
How  might  a  man  not  wander  from  his 

wits 
Pierced  thro'  with  eyes,  but  that  I  kept 

mine  own 
Intent  on  her,  who  rapt  in gloriousdreams. 
The  second-sight  of  some  AstriBan  age. 
Sat  compass'd  with  professors  :  they,  the 

while, 
Discuss'd  a  doubt  and  tost  it  to  and  fro  : 
A  clamor  thicken'd,  mixt  with  inmost 

terms 
Of  art  and  science  :  Lady  Blanche  alone 
Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  lineaments. 
With   all    her   autumn    tresses  falsely 

brown. 
Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a  tiger-cat 
In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a  solemn  grace 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens  : 

there 
One  walk'd  reciting  by  herself,  and  one 
In  this  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read, 
And  smoothed  a  petted  peacock  down 

with  that : 
Some  to  a  low  song  oar'd  a  shallop  by, 


THE  PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


251 


Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadow'd  from  the  heati;  some 

hid  and  sought 
In  the  orange  thickets :    others  tost  a 

ball 
Above  the  fountain-jets,  and  back  again 
With  laughter  :   others   lay  about   the 

lawns. 
Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur'd  that 

their  May 
Was  passing :   what  was  learning  unto 

them  ? 
They  wish'd  to  marry  ;  they  could  rule 

a  house ; 
Men  hated  learned  women  :  but  we  three 
Sat  muffled  like  the  Fates ;  and  often 

came 
Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 
Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity, 
That  harm'd  not :  then  day  droopt ;  the 

chapel  bells 
Call'd  us  :  we  left  the  walks  ;  we  mixt 

with  those 
Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest  white. 
Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall  to 

wall. 
While  the  great  organ  almost  burst  his 

pipes, 
Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro' 

the  court 
A  long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 
Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies, 
The  work   of  Ida,  to  call   down   from 

Heaven 
A  blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  .sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow. 

Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  mypretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  : 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty 
one,  slei'p. 


III. 

MoKN  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning 

star 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold. 
Werose,  and  each  by  other  diest  witli  care 
Descended  to  the  courts  that  laythree  parts 
In  shadow,  but  the  Muses'  heads  were 

touch'd 
Above  the  darkness  from   their  native 

East. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount, 

and  watch'd  • 
Or  seem'd  to  watch  the  dancing  bubble, 

approach'd 
Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of 

sleep, 
Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  herdewy  eyes 
The  circled  Iris  of  a  night  of  tears  ; 
"  And  fly  "  she  cried,  "  0  fly,  while  yet 

you  may  ! 
My  mother  knows  "  :  and  when  I  ask'd 

her  "how  " 
"My  fault"  she  wept  "my  fault !  and 

yet  not  mine  ; 
Yet  mine  in  part.  0  hear  me,  pardon  me. 
My  mother,  't  is  her  wont  from  night  to 

night 
To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 
She  Bays  the  Princess  should  have  been 

the  Head, 
Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two  arms  ; 
And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they  came ; 
But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  rightliand  now. 
And  she  the  left,  or  not,  or  seldom  used  ; 
Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all 

the  love. 
And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass  you  : 
Her  countrywomen  !  she  didnotenvy  her. 
'  Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians  ? 
Girls  ?  —  more  like  men  ! '  and  at  these 

words  the  snake. 
My  secret,  seem'd  to  stir  within  my  brea,st ; 
And  oh,  Sirs,  could  1  help  it,  but  my 

cheek 
Began  toburn  and  bum,  and  her  lynx  eye 
To  fix   and    make  me   hotter,  till   she 

laiigh'd :  ^ 

'  0  marvellously  modest  maiden,  ^a  ! 
Men  !  girls,  like  men  !  why,  if  they  had 

lx>en  men 
You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in  rubrip 

Jims 
For  wholesjile  comment.'     Pardon,  I  am 

shamed 
That  I  must  needs  repeat  for  my  eycus*. 


252 


THE   PRINCESS  :    A   MEDLEY. 


What  looks  so  little  graceful  :  '  men ' 
tfor  still 

My" mother  went  revolving  on  the  word) 

'And  so  they  are,  —  very  like  men  in- 
deed— 

And  with  that  woman  closeted  for  hours ! ' 

Then  c»me  these  dreadful  words  out  one 
by  one, 

'  Why  —  these  —  are  —  men '  :  I  shud- 
der'd  :  *  and  you  know  it.' 

'0  ask  me  nothing,'  I  said  :  'And  she 
knows  too. 

And  she  conceals  it.'  So  my  mother 
clutch'd 

The  truth  at  once,  but  with  no  word 
from  me  ; 

And  now  thus  early  risen  she  goes  to  in- 
form 

The  Princess :  Lady  Psyche  wUlbe  crush'd ; 

But  you  may  yet  be  saved,  and  therefore 
fly: 

But  heal  me  with  your  pardon  ere  you  go." 

"What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a 

blush  ? " 
Said  Cyril  :    "  Pale   one,  blush  again  : 

than  wear 
Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives  away. 
Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more  in 

Heaven" 
He  added,  ' '  lest  some  classic  Angel  speak 
In  scorn  of  us,  'they  mounted,  Gany- 

medes, 
To  tumble,  Vulcans,  on  the  second  mom.' 
But  I  will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 
To  yield  us  farther  furlough  "  :  and  he 

went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls,  and 

thought 
He   scarce  would  prosper.     "Tell  us," 

Florian  ask'd, 
' '  How  grew  this  feud  betwixt  the  right 

and  left." 
"  0  long  ago,"  she  said,  "  betwixt  these 

two 
Division    smoulders    hidden ;   't  is    my 

mother, 
To^ealous,  often  fretful  as  the  wind 
Pent  in  a  crevice  :  much  I  bear  with  her : 
1  never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 
(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a  fool ; 
And  still  she  rail'd  against  the  state  of 

things. 
She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida's  youth. 
And  from  the  Queen's  decease  she  brought 

her  up. 


But  when  your  sister  came  she  won  the 

heart 
Of  Ida  :  they  were  still  together,  grew 
(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inosculated ; 
Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one  note ; 
One  mind  in  all  things  :  yet  my  mother 

still 
Affirms  your  Psyche  thieved  her  theories. 
And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil' s  love  : 
She  calls  her  plagiarist ;  I  know  not  what : 
But  I  must  go  :  1  dare  not  tarry "  and 

light. 
As  flies  the  shadow  of  a  bird,  she  fled. 

Then  murmur'd  Florian  gazing  after 

her. 
"  An  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and  pure. 
If  I  could  love,  why  this  were  she  :  how 

pretty 
Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blush'd 

again, 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril's  random  wish  : 
Not  like   your   Princess  cramm'd  with 

erring  pride, 
Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags 

in  tow." 

1 

"The  crane,"  I  said,  "  may  chatter  of 

the  crane. 
The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove,  but  I 
An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 
My  princess,  0  my  princess !   true  she 

errs. 
But  in  her  own  grand  way  :  being  herself 
Three  times  more  noble  than  threescore 

of  men. 
She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else. 
And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a  crown 
To  blind  the  truth  and  me  :  for  her,  and 

her, 
Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 
The  nectar  ;  but  —  ah  she  —  whene'er 

she  moves 
The  Samian  Her^  rises  and  she  speaks 
A  Memnon  smitten  with  the   morning 

Sun." 

So  saying   from  the  court  we  paced, 

and  gain'd 
The  ten-ace  ranged  along  the  Northern 

front. 
And  leaningthere  on  those  balusters,  high 
Above  the  empurpled  champaign,  drank 

the  gale 
That  blown  about  the  foliage  underneath. 
And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose, 
Beat  balm  upon  oureyelids.     H  ither  cam  e 


THE   PRINCESS  :    A    MEDLEY. 


253 


Cyril,  and  yawning  "0  hard  task,"  he 

cried  ; 
"  No  fighting  shadows  here  !     I  forced  a 

way 
Thro'  solid  opposition  crabb'd  andgnarl'd. 
Better  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave  and 

thump 
A  league  ofstreet  in  summer  solstice  down, 
Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentle- 
woman. 
I  knock'd  and,  bidden,  enter'd ;  found 

her  4;here 
At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her  eyes 
The  green   malignant   light   of  coming 

storm. 
Sir,  I  was  courteous,  every  phrase  well- 
oil' d, 
As  man's  could  be  ;  yet  maiden-meek  I 

pray'd 
Concealment :  she  demanded  who  we  were. 
And  why  we  came  ?     I  fabled  nothing 

fair, 
But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 
Up  went  the  hush'd  amaze  of  hand  and 

eye. 
But  when  I  dwelt  upon  your  old  affiance, 
She  answer'd  sharply  that  I  talk'd  astray. 
I  urged  the  fierce  inscription  on  the  gate. 
And  our  three   lives.     True  —  we  had 

limed  ourselves 
With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take  the 

chance. 
But  such  extremes,  I  told  her,  well  might 

harm 
The  woman's  cause.     *  Not  more  than 

now,'- she  said, 
'  So  puddled  as  it  is  Avith  favoritism.' 
I  tried  the  mother's  heart.     Shame  might 

befall 
Melissa,  knowing,  saying  not  she  knew  : 
Her  answer  was  '  Leave  me  to  deal  with 

that. ' 
I  spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many  deaths, 
And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to  .s|M>ak, 
And  duty  Quty,  clear  of  conseiiuen(;es. 
I  grew  discouraged,  Sir  ;  but  since  I  knew 
No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a  little  wave 
May  beat  admission  in  a  thousand  years, 
I  recommenced ;  '  Decide   not   ere   you 

pause. 
1  find  you  here  but  in  the  second  "place. 
Some  say  the  third  —  theauthentic  found- 
ress yoi;, 
I  offer  boldly  :  we  will  seat  you  highfst  t 
Wink  at  our  advent :  help  my  prinee  to 

gain 
His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I  promise  you 


Some  palace  in  our  land,  wher«  you  shall 

reign 
The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she- 
world. 
And  your  great  name  flow  on  \Vith  broad-    * 

ening  time 
For  ever.'   Well,  she  balanced  this  a  little, 
And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to-day. 
Meantime   be   mute :    thus   much,    nor 
more  I  gain'd." 

He  ceasing,  came  a  message  from  the 

Head. 
"  That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to  take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 
Would  we  go  with  her  ?  we  should  find 

the  land 
Worth  seeing ;  and  the  river  made  a  fall 
Out  yonder":    then  she  pointed  on  to 

where 
A  double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 
Beyond  the  thick -leaved  platans  of  the 

vale. 

Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro'  all 
Its  range  of  duties  to  the  ajjpointed  hour. 
Then  sunimon'd  to  the  porch  we  went. 

She  stood 
Among  her  maidens,  higher  by  the  head. 
Her  back  against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on  one 
Of  those  tame  leopards.     Kittenlike  he 

roll'd 
And  paw'd  about  her  sandal.    I  drew  near  ; 
I  gazed.    On  a  sudden  my  strange  seizure 

came 
Upon  me,  th»  weird  vision  of  our  house  : 
The  Princess  Ida  sfi  in'd  a  hollow  show, 
Her  gay-furr'd  cats  a  painted  fantasy, 
Her   college  and    her    maidens,   empty 

masks. 
And  I  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream, 
For  all  things  were  and  were  not.     Yet 

I  felt 
My  hrart  l)eat  thick  with  passion  ami 

with  awe  ; 
Tlicii  from  my  breast  the  involuntary  si^fli 
Brake,  .is  she  smote  nv  with  the  light  of 

eyes  '-  ,  ■ 

That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and 

siiook  M 

My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so       ^ 
Went  forth  in  long  n-liouo  following  n[) 
The  river  as  it  nairow'fl  to  the  hills. 

» 
I -rode  Ixside  li<-r  and  U>  Me  sho  aaid  : 
"O  friend,  we  trust   tliiit  you  esti-eTn'd 

us  not 


254 


THE   PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yestermom ; 

Unwillingly  we  spake.".  ' '  No  —  not  to 
her," 

I  answer'd,  "but  to  one  of  whom  we 
spake 

Your  Highness  might  have  seem'd  the 
thing  you  say." 

"Again  ? ''  she  cried,  "are  you  ambassa- 
dresses 

From  him  to  me  ?  we  give  you,  being 
strange, 

A  license  :  speak,  and  let  the  topic  die." 

I  stammer'd  that  I  knew  him  —  could 
have  wish'd  — 

"Our  king  expects —  was  there  no  pre- 
contract ? 

There  is  no  truer-hearted  —  ah,  you  seem 

All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  see 

The  bird  of  passage  Hying  south  but 
long'd 

To  follow :  surely,  if  your  Highness 
keep 

Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev'n 
to  death. 

Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair." 

"  Poor  boy  "  she  said  "can  he  not  read 

—  no  books  ? 
Quoit,  tennis,  ball  —  nogames  ?  nordeals 

in  that 
Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exercise  ? 
To  nurse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 
Methinks  he   seems   no   better  than  a 

girl; 
As  ^rls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have 

been : 
We  had  our  dreams ;  perhaps  he  mixt 

with  them  : 
We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun  to 

do  it, 
Being  other  —  since  we  learnt  our  mean- 
ing here, 
*' .  To  lift  the  woman's  fall'n  divinity 
-,     Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man." 

She  paused,  and  added  with  a  haugh- 
tier smile 

"And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my 
Mend, 

At  no  man's  beck,  but  know  ourself  and 
thee, 

0  Vashti,  noble  Vashti-f  Snmmon'd  out 

She  kept  her  state,  and  left  the  drunken 
king 

To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the 
palpjs.'.'- 


"Alas   your   Highness  breathes  full 

East,"  I  said, 
"On  that  which  leans  to  you.     I  know 

the  Prince, 
I  prize  his  truth  :  and  then  how  vast  a 

work 
To  assail  this  gray  pre-eminence  of  man  ! 
You  grant  me  license  ;  might  I  use  it  ? 

think ; 
Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life  may 

fail  ; 
Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your 

plan, 
And  takes  and  ruins  all ;  and  thus  your 

pains 
May  only  make  that  footprint  upon  sand 
Which  old-recurring  waves  of  prejudice 
Resmooth  to  nothing  :  might  I  dread  that 

you. 
With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  your 

great  deeds 
For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  and  miss. 
Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts 

her  due. 
Love,  children,  happiness  ? " 

And  she  exclaim'd, 
"  Peace,  you  young  savage  of  the  North- 
ern wild  ! 
What  !  tho'  your  Prince's  love  were  like 

a  God's, 
Have  WB  not  made  ourself  the  sacrifice  ? 
You  are  bold  indeed  :  we  are  not  talk'd 

to  thus  : 
Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would  they 

grew 
Like  field -flowers  everywhere  !   we  like 

them  well : 
But  children  die  ;  and  let  me  tell  you, 

girl. 
Howe'er  you  babble,  gi-eat  deeds  cannot 

die  ; 
Thev  with  the  sun  and  moon  renew  their 

light 
Forever,  blessing  those  that  look  on  them. 
Children  —  that   men  may  pluck  them 

from  our  hearts, 
KiU  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  our- 
selves — 
0  —  children  —  there  is  nothing  upon 

earth 
More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a  son 
And  sees  him  err  :  nor  would  we  work 

for  fame  ; 
Tho'  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  applause 

of  Great, 
Who  learns   the   one  pou   sto   whence 

after-hands 


THE   PKINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


255 


May  move  the  world,  the'  she  herself 

effect 
But  little  :    wherefore  up  and  act,  nor 

shrink 
For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 
By  frail  successors.     Would,  indeed,  we 

had  been. 
In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a  race 
Of  giants  living,  each,  a  thousand  years, 
That  we  might  see  our  own  Work  out,  and 

watch 
The  sandy  footprint  harden  into  stone." 

I  answer'd  nothing,  doubtful  in  my- 
self 

If  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her 
grand 

Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 

And  she  broke  out  interpreting  my 
thoughts : 

"  No  doubt  we  seem  a  kind  of  monster 

to  you  ; 
We  are  used  to  that  :  for  women,  up  till 

this 
Cramp'd  under  worse  than  South-sea-isle 

taboo, 
Dwarfs  of  the  gynaeceum,  fail  so  far 
In  high  desire,  they  kuow  not,  cannot 

guess 
How  much  their  welfare  is  a  passion 

to  us. 
If  we  could  give  them  surer,  quicker 

proof  — 
Oh  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 
By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single  act 
Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death, 
We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against  the 

pikes, 
Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it. 
To  compass  our  dear  sisters'  liberties." 

She  bow'd  as  if  to  veil  a  noble  tear  ; 
And  up  we  came  to  where  the  river  sloped 
To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on  black 

blocks 
A  breadth  of  thunder.    O'er  it  shook  the 

woods. 
And  danced  the  color,  and,  below,  stuck 

out 
The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that  lived 

and  roar'd 
B«fore  man  was.     Sh*  gazed  awhile  and 

said, 
"  As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  are  wetoher 
That   will   be."     "  Dare   we   dream   of 

that,"  I  ask'd, 


"Which  \vrought  us,  as  the  workman 

and  his  work. 
That  practice  betters?"     "How/'   she 

cried,  "you  love 
The  metaphysics !  read  and  earn  our  prize, 
A  golden  broach  :    beneath  an  emerald 

plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock  ;  our  device  ;  wrought  to  the 

life  ; 
She  rapt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her : 
For  there  are  schools  for  all."     "And 

yet "  I  eaid 
"  Methinks  I  have  not  found  among  them 

all 
One  anatomic."     "Nay,  we  thought  of 

that," 
She  answer'd,  "but  it  pleased  us  not  : 

in  truth 
We  shudder  but  to  dream   our  maids 

should  ape 
Those  monstrous  males  that  carve  the 

living  hound. 
And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of  the 

grave. 
Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human  heart. 
And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm, 
DabbKng  a  shameless  hand  with  shame- 
ful jest, 
Encanialize  their  spirits  :  yet  we  know 
Knowledge  is  knowledge,  and  this  matter 

hangs : 
Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty, 
Nor  willing  men  should  come  among  us, 

learnt. 
For  many  weary  moons  before  we  came. 
This  craft  of  healing.     Were  you  sick, 

ourself 
Would  tend  upon  you.    To  your  question 

now, 
Which  touches  on  the  workman  and  his 

work. 
Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light : 

't  is  so : 
For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but  is  ; 
And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once. 
The  birth  of  light  :  but  we  that  are  not 

all, 
As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this,  now 

that. 
And    live,    perforce,    from   thought    to 

thought,  and  make 
One  act  a  phantom  of  succession  :  thus 
Our    weakness     somiihow     shapes     the 

shadow,  Tiinf  ; 
But  in  the  .shadow  will  we  work,  andmould 
The  woman  to  the  fuller  dJiy^'* 


25G 


THE   PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


'  The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story.' 


She  spake 
With  kindled  eyes  :  we  rode  a  league  be- 
yond, 
And,  o'er  a  bridge  of  pinewood  crossing, 

came 
On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag, 
Full  of  all  beauty.    "  0  how  sweet "  I  said 
(For  I  was  half-oblivious  of  my  mask) 
"  To  linger  here  with  one  that  loved  us." 

"Yea" 
She  answer'd  "or  with  fair  philosophies 
That  lift  the  fancy ;  for  indeed  these  fields 
Are  lovely,  lovelier  notthe  Elysian  lawns. 
Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old,  and 

saw 
The  soft  white  vapor  streak  the  crowned 
towers 


Built  to  the  Sun  "  :  then,  turning  to  hei 

-  maids, 
"  Pitch  our  pavilion  hereupon  the  sward  ; 
Lay  out  the  viands."     At  the  word,  they 

raised 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna's  triumph ;  here  slic 

stood, 
Engirt  with  many  a  florid  maiden-cheek. 
The   woman  -  conqueror  ;   woman  -  con- 

quer'd  there 
The   bearded   Victor   of  ten  -  thousand 

hymns, 
And  all  the  men  moum'd  at  his  side : 

but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb  ;  then,  climbing,  Cyril 

kept 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


257 


With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With  mine  affianced.    Many  a  little  hand 
Glanced  like  a  touch  of  sunshine  on  the 

rocks, 
Many  a  light  foot  shone  like  a  jewel  set 
In  the  dark  crag  :  and  then  we  turn'd, 

we  wound 
About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in. 
Hammering    and    clinking,    chattering 

stony  names 
Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  and  trap 

and  tuff, 
Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Sun 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and  fell, 

and  all 
The  rosy  heights  came  out  above  the  lawns. 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

0  hark,  0  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear. 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 

0  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 

Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 


IV. 

"  There  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we  call 
the  Sun, 

If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound  " 

Said  Ida  ;  "let  us  down  and  rest"  ;  and 
we 

Down  from  the  lean  and  wrinkled  preci- 
pices, 

By  every  coppice-feather'd  chasm  and 
cleft, 


Dropt  thro'  the  ambrosial  gloom  to  where 

below 
No  bigger  than  a  glow-worm  shone  the 

tent 
Lamp-lit  from  the  inner.  Once  she  lean'd 

on  me. 
Descending  ;  once  or  twice  she  lent  her 

hand, 
And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood, 
Stirring  a  sudden  transport  rose  and  fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet,  and  dipt 
Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter'd  in. 
There  leaning  deep  in  broider'd  down  we 

sank 
Our  elbows  :  on  a  tripod  in  the  midst 
A  fragrant  flame  rose,  and  before  us  glow'd 
Fruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine,  and 

gold. 

Then  she  "Let  some  one  sing  to  us  : 

lightlier  move 
The  minutes  fledged  with  music  "  :  and 

a  maid. 
Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp,  and 

sang. 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what 
they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  de- 
spair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-iields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Fresh  as  the  flrst  beam  glittering  on 
a  sail, 

That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  un- 
derworld. 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 

That  sinks  with  all  wc  love  below  the 
verge  ; 

So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  sum- 
mer dawns 
The  earliest  i)ipc  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes     • 
The  cfi.senient  slowly  grows  a  glimmering 

.scjuare  ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no 
more. 

"DearasremeniberMkiss«"saft(T  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  l)y  .liep<'lcss  fancy 

feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  otliers  ;  deep  awbve, 


258 


THE   PRINCESS:  A   MEDLEY. 


'  la  lodkiUif  uii  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more.' 


Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  re- 
gret; 

0  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no 
more." 

She  ended  with  such  passion  that  the 
tear, 
,  #he  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring 
pearl 
Lost  in  her  bosom  :  but  with  some  dis- 
dain 
Answer'd  the  Princess  "If  indeed  there 

haunt 
About  the  raoulder'd  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a  voice  and  vague,  fatal  to  men. 
Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears 
with  wool 


And  so  pace  by  :  but  thine  are  fancies 

hat  eh 'd 
In  silken-folded  idleness  ;  nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a  true  occasion  lost. 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones  be. 
While  down  the  streams  that  float  us 

each  and  all 
To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering  bergs 

of  ice, 
Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on  the 

waste 
Becomes   a  cloud  :  for  all  things   serve 

their  time 
Toward  that  great  year  of  equal  mights 

and  rights, 
Nor  would  1  fight  with  iron  laws,  in  the  end 
Found  golden  :  let  the  past  be  past ;  let  be 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


259 


Their  cancell'd  Babels :  tho'  the  rough 

kex  break 
The  starr'd  mosaic,  and  the  beard-blown 

goat 
Hangon  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  figtree  split 
Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while  we 

hear 
A  trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a  poising  eagle,  burns 
Above  the  unrisen  morrow  "  :  then  to  me ; 
"  Know  you  no  song  of  your  own  land," 

she  said, 
"  Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retrospect, 
But  deals  with  the  other  distance  and 

the  hues 
Of  promise;  not  a  death's-head  at  the 

wine." 

Then  I  remember'd  one  myself  had 
made. 

What  time  I  watch'd  the  swallow  wing- 
ing south 

From  mine  own  land,  part  made  long 
since,  and  part 

Now  while  I  sang,  and  maidenlike  as  far 

As  I  could  ape  their  treble,  did  I  sing. 

"0  Swallow,  Swallow,  iiying,  flying 
South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves. 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

"0  tell  her.  Swallow,  thou  that  know- 

est  each. 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the 

South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

"0  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow, 

and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill. 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million 

loves. 

"0  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take 
me  in. 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

"  Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart 

with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are 

green  ? 

"0  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood 
is  flown  : 


Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is 
made. 

"0  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

"0  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden 

woods. 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and 

make  her  mine. 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee." 

I  ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  at  each, 
Like  the  Ithacensian  suitors  in  old  time, 
Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh'd  with 

-  alien  lips. 
And  knew  not  what  they  meant ;   for 

still  my  voice 
Rang  false:  but  smiling  "Not  for  thee," 

she  said, 
"0  Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 
Shall    burst   her    veil :    marsh  -  divers, 

rather,  maid, 
Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow- 
crake 
Grate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass : 

and  this 
A  mere  love-poem  !  0  for  such,  my  friend. 
We  hold  them  slight :  they  mind  us  of 

tlie  time 
When  we  made  bricks  in  Egypt.  Knaves 

are  men. 
That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tendemes-s. 
And  dress  the  victim  to  the  off'eriiig  up. 
And  paintthegatesof  Hell  with  Paradise, 
And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 
Poor  soul !  I  had  a  maid  of  honor  once  ; 
She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  forsuch  aone, 
A  rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 
I  loved  her.     Peace  be  with  her.     She 

is  dead. 
So  they  blaspheme  the  muse  !  but  great 

is  .song 
Used  to  great  ends  :  ourself  have  often 

tried 
Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rhythm  have 

dash'd 
The  passion  of  the  prophetess  ;  for  song 
Is  (liier  unto  freedom,  force  and  growth 
Of  spirit  than  to  junketing  and  love. 
Love  is  it  ?  Would  this  same  mock -love, 

and  this 
Mock -Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter 

bats, 
Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our  worth, 


260 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  petty  babes 
To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills,  and 

sphered 
Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none. 

Enough  ! 
But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit,  you. 
Know  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of 

your  soil, 
That  gives  the  manners  of  your  country- 
women ? " 

She  spoke  and  turn'd  her  sumptuous 
head  with  eyes 

Of  shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine. 

Then  while  I  dragg'd  my  brains  for  such 
a  song, 

Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth'd  glass 
had  wrought. 

Or  master'd  by  the  sense  of  spoi't,  began 

To  troll  a  careless,  careless  tavern-catch 

Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experiences 

Unmeet  for  ladies.  Florian  nodded  at 
him, 

I  frowning  ;  Psyche  flush'd  and  wann'd 
and  shook  ; 

The  lilylike  Melissa  droop'd  her  brows  ; 

"Forbear"  the  Princess  cried;  "For- 
bear, Sir"  I  ; 

And  heated  thro'  and  thro'  with  wrath 
and  love, 

I  smote  him  on  the  breast ;  he  started  up  ; 

There  rose  a  shriek  as  of  a  city  sack'd  ; 

Melissa  clamor'd  "Flee  the  death"; 
"To  horse" 

Said  Ida  ;  "  home  !  to  horse  !  "  and  fled, 
as  flies 

A  troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the  dusk. 

When  some  one  batters  at  the  dovecote- 
doors, 

Disorderly  the  women.     Alone  I  stood 

With  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vext  at 
heart. 

In  the  pavilion  :  there  like  parting  hopes 

I  heard  them  passing  from  me  :  hoof  by 
hoof, 

And  every  hoof  a  knell  to  my  desires, 

Clang'd  on  the  bridge  ;  and  tlien  another 
shriek, 

"The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess,  0 
the  Head  !  " 

For  blind  with  rage  she  miss'd  the  plank, 
and  roU'd 

In  the  river.  Out  I  sprang  from  glow  to 
gloom  : 

There  wliirl'd  her  white  robe  like  a  blos- 
som'd  branch 

Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall :  a  glance  I  gave, 


No  more  ;  but  woman-vested  as  1  was 
Plunged ;   and   the   flood   drew ;  yet   I 

caught  her ;  then 
Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the 

world. 
Strove  to  buifet  to  land  in  vainf    A  tree 
Was  half-disrooted  from  his  place  and 

stoop' d 
To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gurgling 

wave 
Mid-channel.     Right  on  this  we  drove 

and  caught. 
And  grasping  down  the  boughs  I  gain'd 

the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmeringly 

group'd  J 

In  the  hollow  bank.     One  reaching  for- 
ward drew 
My  burden  from  mine  arms  ;  they  cried 

"  she  lives"  : 
They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent :  but  I, 
So  much  a  kind  of  shame  within  me 

wrought. 
Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  opening  eyes. 
Nor  found  my  friends  ;  but  push'd  alone 

on  foot 
(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I  left  her  mine) 
Across  the  woods,  and  less  from  Indian 

craft 
Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found 

at  length 
The  garden  portals.     Two  great  statues, 

Art 
And  Science,  Caryatids,  lifted  up 
A  weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were 

valves 
Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter  rued 
His   rash   intmsion,    manlike,    but   his 

brows 
Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  thereupon 
Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked  the 

gates. 

A  little  space  was  left  between  the  horn  s. 
Thro'  which  I  clamber'd  o'er  at  top  with 

pain, 
Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden 

walks. 
And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  changed  from 

hue  to  hue. 
Now  poring  on  the  glowworm,  now  tlie 

star, 
I  paced  the  terrace,  till  the  Bear  had 

wheel'd 
Thro'  a  great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


261 


A  step 
Of  lightest  echo,  then  a  loftier  form 
Than  female,  moving  thro'  the  uncertain 

gloom, 
Disturb'd  me  with  the   doubt  "  if  this 

were  she  " 
But  it  was  Florian.    "Hist  0  Hist,"  he 

said, 
"  They  seek  us  :  out  so  late  is  out  of  rules. 
Moreover  '  seize  the  strangers  '  is  the  cry. 
How  came  you  here  ? "  I  told  him  :  "  I " 

said  he, 
"  Last  of  the  train,  a  moral  leper,  I, 
To  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at  heart, 

return'd. 
Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 
With  hooded  brows  I  crept  into  the  hall, 
And,  couch'd  behind  a  Judith,  under- 
neath 
The  head  of  Holofernes  peep'd  and  saw. 
Girl  after  girl  was  call'd  to  trial  :  each 
Disclaim'd  all  knowledge  of  us :  last  of  all, 
Melissa  :  trust  me,  Sir,  I  pitied  her. 
She,  question'd  if  she  knew  us  men,  at 

first 
Was  silent  ;  closer  prest,  denied  it  not : 
And  then,  demanded  if  her  mother  knew. 
Or  Psyche,  she  affirm'd  not,  or  denied  : 
From  whence  the  Royal- mind,  familiar 

with  her. 
Easily  gather'd  either  guilt.     She  sent 
For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there  ;  she 

call'd 
For  Psyche's  child  to  cast  it  from  the 

doors  ; 
She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her  face 

to  face  ; 
And  I  sliptout :  but  whitherwillyounow  ? 
And  where  are  Psyche,  Cy ri  I  ?  both  are  fled : 
What,  if  together  ?  that  were  not  so  well. 
Would  rather  we  had  never  come  !  I  dread 
His  wildness,  and  the  chances  of  the  dark. ' ' 

"And  yet,"  I  said,  "you  wrong  him 

more  than  I 
Tliat  struck  him :  this  is  proper  to  the 

clown, 
Tho'  smock'd,  or   furr'd   and  purpled, 

still  the  clown, 
To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him,  and 

to  shame 
That  which  he  .says  he  loves  :  for  Cyril, 

howe'er 
He  deal  in  frolic,  a.s  to-night  —  the  song 
Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn'd  in 

grosser  lips 
Beyond  all  pardon  —  as  it  is,  I  hold 


These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not  he. 
He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament : 
But  as  the  waterlily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puff's  of  wind 
Tho'  anchor'd  to  the  bottom,  sueh  is  he." 

Scarce  had  I  ceased  when  from  a'  tam- 
arisk near 
Two    Proctors   leapt   upon   us,    crying, 

"Names"  : 
He,  standing  still,  was  clutch'd  ;  but  I 

began 
To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes,  wind 
And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and  race 
By  all  the  fountains  :  fleet  I  was  of  foot : 
Before  me  shower'd  the  rose  in  flakes  ; 

behind 
I  heard  the  puff'd  pursuer  ;  at  mine  ear 
Bubbled  the  nightingale  and  heeded  not. 
And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my  soul. 
At  last  I  hook'd  my  ankle  in  a  vine. 
That  claspt  the  feet  of  a  Mnemosyne, 
And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught  and 
known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess  where 

she  sat 
High  in  the  hall :  above  her  droop'd  a 

lamp. 
And  made  the  single  jewel  on  her  brow 
Burn  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a  mast-head. 
Prophet  of  storm  :  a  handmaid  on  each  side 
Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her  long 

black  hair 
Damp  from  the  river ;  and  close  behind 

her  stood 
Eight  daughters  of  the  plough,  stronger 

than  men. 
Huge  women  blowzed  with  health,  and 

wind,  and  rain, 
And  labor.     Each  was  like  a  Druid  rock  ; 
Or  like  a  spire  of  land  that  stands  apart 
Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail'd  about 

with  mews. 

Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  dividing 

clove 
An  advent  to  the  throne  :  and  there  beside. 
Half-naked  an  if  caught  at  once  from  bed 
And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footch)th,  lay 
The  lily-shining  child  ;  and  on  the  left, 
Bow'd  on  her  palms  and  folded  up  from 

wrong, 
Her  round  white  shotilder  .shaken  with 

her  sobs, 
Melissa  knelt  ;  but  Lady  Blanche  erect 
Stood  up  and  sjjake,  an  affluent  orator. 


262 


THE   PRINCESS  :    A   MEDLEY. 


"It  was  not  thus,  0  Piincess,  in  old 

days : 
You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon  my 

lips  : 
I  led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies  ; 
I  fed  you  with  the  mUk  of  every  Muse  ; 
1  loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you  me 
Your  second  mother :  those  were  gracious 

times. 
Then  came  your  new  friend  :  you  began 

to  change  — 
I  saw  it  and  grieved  —  to  slacken  and  to 

cool ; 
Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 
You  turn'd  yoxir  warmer  currents  all  to 

her. 
To  me  you  froze  :  this  was  my  meed  for 

all. 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  part  from  ancient  love, 
And  partly  that  I  hoped  to  win  you  back, 
And  partly  conscious  of  my  own  deserts, 
And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil  head. 
And  chiefly  you  were  bom  for  something 

gi-eat. 
In  which  I  might  your  fellow- worker  be, 
When  time  should  serve  ;  and  thus  a 

noble  scheme 
Grew  up  from  seed  we  two  long  since 

had  sown  ; 
In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a  Jonah's  gourd. 
Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden  sun  : 
We  took  this  palace  ;  but  even  from  the 

first 
You  stood  in  your  own  light  and  darken'd 

mine. 
What  student  came  but  that  you  planed 

her  path 
To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 
A  foreigner,  and  I  your  couutryAvoman, 
I  your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new  in 

all? 
But  still  her  lists  were  swell'd  and  mine 

were  lean  ; 
Yet  I  bore  upinhopeshewould  be  known  : 
Then  came  these  wolves  :  they  knew  her  : 

they  endured, 
Long-closeted  with  her  the  yestermom, 
To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she  to 

hear  : 
And  me  none  told :  not  less  to  an  eye 

like  mine, 
A  lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal, 
Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent,  and 

my  foot 
Was  to  you  :  but  I  thought  again  :  I  fear'd 
To  meet  a  cold  '  We  thank  you,  we  shall 

hear  of  it 


From  Lady  Psyche '  :   you  had  gone  to 

her, 
She  told,   perforce ;   and  winning  easy 

grace, 
No   doubt,   for  slight   delay,   remain'd 

among  us 
In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown,  the 

stem 
Less  grain  than  touchwood,  while  my 

honest  heat 
Were  all  miscounted  as  malignant  haste 
To  push  my  rival  out  of  ^lace  and  power. 
But  public  use  required  she  should  be 

known  ; 
And  since  my  oath  was  ta'en  for  public 

iise, 
I  broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the  sense. 
I  spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  watch'd 

them  well, 
Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief 

done  ; 
And  yet  this  day  (tho'  you  should  hate 

me  for  it) 
I  came  to  tell  you  ;  found  that  you  had 

gone, 
Ridd'n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise  :  now,  I 

thought, 
That  surely  she  will  speak  ;  if  not,  then  I : 
Did  she  ?  These  monsters  blazon'd  what 

they  were. 
According  to  the  coarseness  of  their  kind. 
For  thus  I  hear  ;  and  known  at  last  (my 

work) 
And  full  of  cowardice  and  guilty  shame, 
1  grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame,  she 

flies ; 
And  I  remain  on  whom  to  wreak  your 

rage, 
I,  thathave  lent  mj-life  to  build  up  yours, 
I  that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth, 

and  time. 
And  talents,   I  —  you  know  it  —  I  will 

not  boast : 
Dismiss  me,  and  I  prophesy  your  plan. 
Divorced  from  my  experience,  will  be  chaff 
Foreverygust  of  chance,  and  men  will  say 
We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but  chased 
The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot  can 

tread. " 

She    ceased  :    the    Princess    answer'd 

coldly  "  Good  : 
Your  oath  is  broken  :  we  dismiss  you :  go. 
For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the 

child) 
Our  mind  is  changed  :  we  take  it  to  our- 

self." 


THE   PEINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


263 


Thereat  the  Lady  stretch'd  a  vulture 

throat, 
And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a  haggard 

smile. 
•■'The  plan  was  mine.     I  built  the  nest " 

she  said 
"To  hatch   the   cuckoo.     Rise!"   and 

stoop'd  to  updrag 
Melissa  :  she,  half  on  her  mother  propt, 
Half-drooping  from  her,  turn'd  her  face, 

and  cast 
A  liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer, 
W  hich  melted  Florian's  fancy  as  she  hung, 
A  Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out. 
Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Heaven  ;  and 

while 
We  gazed  upon  her  came  a  little  stir 
About  the  doors,  and  on  a  suddm  rush'd 
Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pursued, 
A  woman-post  in  flying  raiment.     Fear 
Stared  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk'd  her  face, 

and  wing'd 
Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she  fell 
Delivering  seal'd  despatches  which  the 

Head 
Took  half-amazed,  and  in  her  lion's  mood 
Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 
Regarding,  while  she  read,  till  over  brow 
And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the  wrathful 

bloom 
As  of  some  fire  against  a  stormy  cloud, 
When  the  wild  peasant  rights  himself, 

the  rick 
Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in  the 

heavens  ; 
For  anger  most  it  seem'd,  while  now  her 

breast. 
Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at  her 

heart. 
Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we  heard 
In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she 

held 
Rustle  :  at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her  feet 
Sent  out  a  bitter  bleating  for  its  dam  ; 
The  plaintive  cry  jarr'd  on  her  ire  ;  she 

cru.sh'd 
The  scrolls  together,  made  a  sudden  turn 
As  if  to  S7)eak,  but,  utterance  failing  her, 
She  whirl'd  them  on  to  me,  as  who  should 

say 
"  Read,"  and  I  read  —  two  letters  —  one 

her  sire's. 

"  Fair   daughter,    when   we  sent  the 
Prince  your  way 
We   knew   not   your    ungracious   laws, 
which  learnt. 


We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you  are 

built, 
Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong,  but 

fell 
Into  his  father's  hands,  who  has  this  night. 
You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 
Slipt  round  and  in  the  ilark  invested  you. 
And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his 


The  second  was  my  father's  running 

thus : 
"  You  have  our  son  :  touch  not  a  hair  of 

his  head  : 
Render  him  up  unscathed :  give  him  your 

hand  : 
Cleave  to  your  contract :  tho'  indeed  we 

hear 
You  hold  the  woman  is  the  better  man  ; 
A  rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 
Would  make    all  women    kick   against 

their  Lords 
Thro'  all  the  world,  and   wliich  might 

well  deserve 
That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your 

palace  down  ; 
And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us  back 
Our  son,  on  the  ins  ant,  whole." 

So  far  I  read  ; 
And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetuously. 

"  0  not  to  pry  an  d  peer  on  your  reserve, 
But  led  by  golden  \vishes,  and  a  hope 
The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I  break 
Your  precinct  ;  not  a  scorner  of  your  sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be  :  hear  me,  for  I  bear, 
Tho'  man,  yet  human,  whatsoe'er  your 

wrongs. 
From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock  a  life 
Less  mine  than  yours  :  my  nurse  would 

tell  me  of  you  ; 
I  babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the  moon. 
Vague   brightness;    when    a  boy,    you 

stoop'd  to  me 
From  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair  lights, 
Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  inmost 

south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north  ;  at  eve  and 

dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods  ; 
The  leader  wildswan  in  among  the  stars 
Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths  of 

glowworm  light 
Themellow breaker  munuur'il  Iiia.   Now, 
Becau.se  I  would  have  rcacli'd  you,  had 

you  been 


264 


THE   PRINCESS:    A   MEDLEY. 


Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the  en- 
throned 
Persephone  in  Hades,  now  at  length, 
Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 
A  man  I  came  to  see  you  :  but,  indeed, 
Not  in  this  frequence  can  I  lend  full 
tongue, 

0  noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that  wait 
On  you,  their  centre  :  let  me  say  but  this. 
That  many  a  famous  man  and  woman, 

town 
And  landskip,  have  I  heard  of,  after  seen 
The     dwarfs    of    presage ;     tho'    when 

known,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing  :  but  in  you 

I  found 
My  boyish  dream  involved  and  dazzled 

down 
And  master'd,   while   that  after-beauty 

makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour  to 

hour, 
Within  me,   that   except  you  slay  me 

here, 
According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 

1  cannot  cease  to  follow  you,  as  they  say 
The  seal  does  music ;  who  desire  you  more 
Than  growing  boys  their  manhood  ;  dy- 
ing lips. 

With  many  thousand  matters  left  to  do, 
The  breath  of  life  ;  0   more  than  poor 

men  wealth. 
Than  sick  men  health  —  yours,  yours, 

not  mine  —  but  half 
Without  you ;  with  you,  whole  ;  and  of 

those  halves 
You  worthiest  ;  and  howe'er  you  block 

and  bar 
Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine, 

I  hold 
That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse  despair, 
But  in  the  teeth  of  clench'd  antagonisms 
To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die  : 
Yet  that  1  came  not  all  unauthorized 
Behold  your  father's  letter." 

On  one  knee 
Kneeling,  I  gave  it,  which  she  caught, 

and  dash'd 
Unopen'd  at  her  feet :  a  tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem'd  to  wait  behind  her  lips, 
As  waits  a  river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  world  with 

foam  : 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but  there 

rose 
A  hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the  maids 


Gather' d  together  :  from  the  illumined 

hall 
Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o'er  a  press 
Of  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded  ewes, 
And  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  and  gemlike 

eyes, 
And  gold  and  golden  heads  ;  they  to  and 

fro 
Fluctuated,  as  flowers  in  storm,  some 

red,  some  pale. 
All  open-mouth' d,  all  gazing  to  the  light. 
Some  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the 

land. 
And  some  that  men  were  in  theverywalls. 
And  some  they  cared  not ;  till  a  clamor 

grew 
As  of  a  new- world  Babel,  woman-built. 
And  worse-confounded :  high  above  them 

stood 
The  placid  marble  Muses,  looking  peace. 

Not  peace  she  look'd,  the  Head  :  but 

rising  up 
Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep  hair,  so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining 

there 
Fixt  like  a  beacon-tower  above  the  waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling  eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the 

light 
Dash  themselves  dead.     She   stretch'd 

her  arms  and  call'd 
Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

"What  fear  ye  brawlers?   am  not  I 

your  Head  ? 
On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks  : 

/  dare 
All  these  male  thunderbolts  :  what  is  it 

ye  fear  ? 
Peace  !  there  are  those  to  avenge  us  and 

they  come  : 
If  not,  — myself  were  like  enough,  0  girls. 
To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  ourrights. 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of  war, 
Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause. 
Die  :  yet  Iblameyounotsomuchforfear; 
Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made  you 

that 
From  which  I  would  redeem  you  ;  but  for 

those 
That  stir  this  hubbub  —  you  and  you  — 

I  know 
Your  faces   there   in   the   crowd  —  to- 
morrow morn 
We  hold  a  great  convention  ;  then  shall 

they 


THE   PKINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


265 


That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty, 

learn 
With  whom  they  deal,  dismiss'd  in  shame 

to  live 
No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  household 

stuff. 
Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other's  fame. 
Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the 

clown. 
The  drunkard's  football,  laughing-stocks 

of  Time, 
Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and  in 

their  heels. 
But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to 

thrum. 
To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and  to 

scour, 
For  ever  slaves  at  homeand  fools  abroad. " 

She,  ending,  waved  her  hands  :  thereat 

the  crowd 
Muttering,  dissolved  :  then  with  a  smile, 

that  look'd 
A  stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the  cliff". 
When  all  the  glens  are  drown'd  in  azure 

gloom 
Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us  and 

said  : 

"  You  have  done  well  and  like  a  gen- 
tleman. 
And  like  a  prince  :  you  have  our  thanks 

for  all : 
And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman's 

dress  : 
Well  have  you  done  and  like  a  gentleman. 
You  saved  our  life :  we  owe  you  bitter 

thanks  : 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in 

the  flood  — 
Then  men  had  said  —  but  now  —  What 

hinders  me 
To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you 

both?  — 
Yet  since  our  father  —  Wasps  in  our  good 

hive, 
Vou  would-be  quenchers  of  thelight  to  be, 
barbarians,    grosser    than   your   native 

bears  — 
0  would  I  had  his  sceptre  for  one  hour ! 
You  that  have  dared  to  break  our  bound, 

and  guU'd 
Our  servants,    wrong'd   and    lied    and 

thwarted  us  — 
/  wed  with  thee  !    /  Iwund  by  precontract 
Your  bride,  your  bondslave  1  not  tho'  all 

the  gold 


That  veins  the  world  were  pack'd  to  make 

your  crown. 
And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord 

you.     Sir, 
Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hateful 

to  us  : 
I  trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you  : 
Begone  :  we  will  not  look  upon  you  more. 
Here,  push  them  out  at  gates." 

In  wrath  she  spake. 
Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of 

the  plough 
Bent  their  broad  faces  toward  us  and 

address' d 
Their  motion :  twice  I  sought  to  plead 

my  cause. 
But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy 

hands, 
The  weight  of  destiny  :  so  from  her  face 
They  push'd  us,  down  the   steps,  and 

thro'  the  court. 
And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out  at 

gates. 

We  cross'd  the  street  and  gain'd  a  petty 

mound 
Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights  and 

heard 
The  voices  murmuring.  While  I  listen'd, 

came 
On  a  sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the 

doubt : 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts ; 
The  Princess  with  her  monstrous  woman- 
guard, 
The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by  side, 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the  kings 
Were  shadows  ;  and  the  long  fantastic 

night 
With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not  been. 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 
As  .strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my  s])irits 
Settled  a  gentle  cloud  of  melancholy  ; 
Not  long ;  1  shook  it  off" ;  for  spite  of 

doubts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I  was  one 
To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance  but 

came 
As  night  to  him  tliat  sitting  on  a  hill 
Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Norway 

sun 
Set  into  sunrise  ;  then  we  moved  away. 


Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums, 
That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands  ; 


266 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 
And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  : 

A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 
He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 

The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe. 
And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

So   Lilia  sang  :   we  thought  her  half- 
possess' d. 
She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro'  the 

words  ; 
And,  after,  feigning  pique  at  what  she 

call'd 
The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false  sub- 
lime— 
Like  one  that  wishes  at  a  dance  to  change 
The  music  —  clapt  her  hands  and  cried 

for  war. 
Or  some  gi'and  fight  to  kill  and  make  an 

end : 
And  lie  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue,  said, 
"Sir   Ralph  has  got  your  colors  :   if  I 

prove 
Your  knight,  and  fight  your  battle,  what 

for  me  ? " 
1 1  chanced,  her  empty  glove  upon  the  tomb 
Lay  by  her  like  a  model  of  her  hand. 
She  took  it  and  she  flung  it.      "  Fight  " 

she  said, 
"And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great 

and  good." 
Heknightlikeinhis  cap  instead  of  casque, 
A  cap  of  Tyi-ol  boriow'd  from  the  hall. 
Arranged   the  favor,  and   assumed   the 
Prince. 


Now,  scarce  three  paces  measured  from 

the  mound. 
We  stumbled  on  a  stationary  voice. 
And  "Stand,  who  goes?"    "Two  from 

the  palace  "  1. 
"The  second  two  :  they  wait,"  he  said, 

"pass  on  ; 
His   Highness  wakes "  :    and  one,  that 

clash'd  in  arms. 
By  glimmering  lanes  and  walls  of  canvas, 

led 
Threading  the  soldier-city,  till  we  heard 
The  drowsy  folds  of  our  great  ensign  shake 
From  blazon'd  lions  o'er  the  imperial  tent 
Whispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 
Dazed  me  half-blind  :  I  stood  and  seem'd 

to  hear. 


As  in  a  poplar  grove  when  a  light  wind 

wakes 
A  lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and 

dies, 
Each  hissing  in  his  neighbor's  ear  ;  and 

then 
A  strangled   titter,  out  of  which  there 

brake 
On  all  sides,  clamoringetiquettetodeath, 
Unmeasured  mirth  ;  while  now  the  two 

old  kings 
Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  and  down. 
The  fresh  young  captains  flash' d   Iheir 

glittering  teeth. 
The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved 

and  blew. 
And  slain  with  laughter  roll'd  the  gilded 

Squire. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek 

wet  with  tears, 
Panted  from  weary  sides  "King,  you  are 

free  ! 
We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  our  son. 
If  this  be  he,  —  or  a  draggled  mawkin, 

thou, 
That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in  the 

sludge"  : 
For  I  was  drench'd  with  ooze,  and  torn 

with  briers. 
More  crumpled  than  a  poppy  from  the 

sheath. 
And  all  one  rag,  disprinced  from  head  to 

heel. 
Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his  vaulted 

palm 
A  whisper'd  jest  to  some  one  near  him 

"  Look, 
He  has  been  among  his  shadows. "     ' '  Sa- 
tan take 
The  old  women  and  their  shadows  !  (thus 

the  King 
Roar'd)  make  yourself  a  man  to  fight  with 

men. 
Go  :  Cyril  told  us  all." 

As  boys  that  slink 
From  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding  eye. 
Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a  trice 
From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman-slough 
To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden 

scale 
Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that  now 
Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the 

Earth, 
And  hit  the  Northern  hills.     Here  Cyril 

met  us, 
A  little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


267 


We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask'd  and 

given 
For  stroke  and  song,  resolder'd  peace, 

whereon 
Follow' d  his  tale.     Amazed  he  fled  away 
Thro'  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the  night 
Had  come  on  Psyche  weeping :  "  then  we 

fell 
Into  your  father's  hand,  and  there  she  lies. 
But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir." 

He  show'd  a  tent 
A  stone-shot  off :  we  enter'd  in,  and  there 
Among  piled  arms  and  rough  accoutre- 
ments. 
Pitiful  sight,  wrapp'd  in  a  soldier's  cloak. 
Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped  from 

head  to  foot. 
And  push'd  by  inide  hands  from  its  ped- 
estal. 
All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground  she  lay : 
And  at  her  head  a  follower  of  the  camp, 
A  charr'd  and  wrinkled  piece  of  woman- 
hood. 
Sat  watching  like  a  watcher  by  the  dead. 

Then  Florian  knelt,  and  "Come"  he 

whisper'd  to  her, 
"  Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister  :  lie  not 

thus. 
What  have  you  done  but  right  ?  you 

could  not  slay 
Me,  nor  your  prince  :  look  up  :  be  com- 
forted : 
Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one 

ought, 
When  fall'n  in  darker  ways."     And  like- 
wise I  : 
"  Be  comforted  :  have  I  not  lost  her  too. 
In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless 

charm 
That  none  has  else  for  me  ? "     She  heard, 

she  moved. 
She  moan'd,  a  folded  voice  ;  and  up  she 

sat, 
And  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as  pale 

and  smooth 
As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded  over 

death 
In  deathless  marble.     "Her"  she  said 

"my  friend  — 
Parted  from  her —  betray'd  her  cause  and 

mine  — 
Where  shall  I  breathe  ?  why  kept  ye  not 

your  faith  ? 
0  base  and  bad  !  what  comfort  ?  none  for 

me  !" 
To  whom  remorseful  Cyril  "Yet  I  pray 


Take  comfort :  live,  dear  lady,  for  vour 

child  !  " 
At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and  cried. 

"  Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah  my 

child. 
My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I  shall  see  no 

more  ! 
For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back  ; 
And  either  she  will  die  from  want  of  care, 
Or  sicken  with  ill-usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  is  hers  —  for  every  little  fault. 
The  child  is  hers  ;  and  they  will  beat  my 

girl 
Remembering  her  mother  :  0  my  flower ! 
Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make 

her  hard. 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With   some  cold  reverence   worse   than 

were  she  dead. 
Ill  mother  that  I  was  to  leave  her  there. 
To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry  they 

made. 
The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them  all : 
But  I  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a  wild  petition  night  and  day. 
Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a  wind 
Wailing  for  ever,  till  they  open  to  me, 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet, 
Mj'  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia,  my  one  child : 
And  I  will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way, 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her  : 
Ah  !  what  might  that  man  not  deserve 

of  me, 
Who  gave  me  back  my  child?"     "Be 

comforted  " 
SaidCyril  "you  shall  have  it"  :  butagain 
She  veil'd  her  brows,  and  prone  she  sank, 

and  so 
Like  tender  things  that  being  caught 

feign  death. 
Spoke  not,  nor  stirr'd. 

By  this  a  munnur  ran 
Thro'  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced  the 

scouts 
With  rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at  hand. 
We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  without 
Found    the  gray  kings   at   parle  :   ami 

"  Look  you"  cried 
Myfather  "  that  our  (compact  be  fnllill'd  : 
You  have  spoilt  this  child  ;  sho  laughs 

at  you  and  man  : 
She  wrongs  herself,  her  .sex,  and  me,  and 

him  : 
Butred-facedwarhasrodsof  stwland  fire ; 
She  jaeld.s,  or  war." 

Then  (taina  turn'd  to  me  : 


268 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


*  ■  "We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a  stormy  time 
With  our  strange  girl :  and  yet  they  say 

that  still 
You  love  her.     Give  us,  then,  your  mind 

at  large  : 
How  say  you,  war  or  not  ? " 

"  Not  war,  if  possible, 

0  king,"  I  said,  "lest  from  the  abuse  of 

war. 
The  deseci-ated  shrine,  the  trampled  year. 
The    smouldering  homestead,   and  the 

household  flower 
Torn  from  the  lintel  —  all  the  common 

wrong  — 
A  smoke  go  up  thro'  which  I  loom  to  her 
Three  times  a  monster  :  now  she  lightens 

scorn 
At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then 

would  hate 
(And  every  voice  she  talk'd  with  ratify  it. 
And  every  face  she  look'd  on  justify  it) 
The  general  foe.  More  soluble  is  this  knot, 
By  gentleness  than  war.    I  want  her  love. 
What  were  I  nigher  this  altho'  we  dash'd 
Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults. 
She  would  not  love  ;  —  or  brought  her 

chain'd,  a  slave. 
The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  is  my  lord, 
Not  ever  would  she  love  ;  but  brooding 

turn 
The  book  of  scorn,  till  all  myflitting  chance 
Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her 

wrongs. 
And  crush'd  to  death  :  and  rather,  Sire, 

than  this 

1  would  the  old  God  of  war  himself  were 

dead, 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills. 
Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs  of 

wreck, 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk'd 

in  ice. 
Not  to  be  molten  out." 

And  roughl}''  spake 
My  father,  "Tut,  you  know  them  not, 

the  girls. 
Boy,  when  I  hearyou  prate  I  almostthink 
That  idiot  legend  credible.  Look  you,  Sir ! 
Man  is  the  hunter  ;  woman  is  his  game  : 
The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the 

chase, 
We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their  skins ; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them  down. 
Wheedling  and  siding  with  them  !    Out ! 

for  shame  ! 
Boy,  there  's  no  rose  that  'e  half  so  dear 

to  them 


As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare  not  do, 
Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous  battle, 

comes 
With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him, 

and  leaps  in 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  by  the 

score 
Flatter'd  and  fluster' d,  wins,  tho'  dash'd 

with  death 
He  reddens  what  he  kisses  :  thus  I  won 
Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good  wife. 
Worth  winning  ;   but  this  firebrand  — 

gentleness 
To  such  as  her  !  if  Cyril  spake  her  true, 
To  catch  a  dragon  in  a  cherry  net. 
To  trip  a  tigress  with  a  gossamer. 
Were  wisdom  to  it." 

"Yea  but  Sire,"  I  cried, 
"Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.     The 

soldier  ?     No  : 
What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should 

prize 
The  soldier  ?   I  beheld  her,  when  she  rose 
The  yesternight,  and  storming  in  extremes 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance 

down 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn'd 

the  death. 
No,  not  the  soldier's  :  yet  I  hold  her,  king. 
True  woman  :  but  you  clash  them  all  in 

one. 
That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 
The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 
As  oak  from  elm  :  one  loves  the  soldier, 

one 
Tlie  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this,  one 

that. 
And  some  unworthily ;  their  sinless  faith, 
A  maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a  sty. 
Glorifying  clown  and  satyr  ;  whence  they 

need 
More  breadth  of  culture :  is  not  Ida  right  ? 
They  worth  it  ?  truer  to  the  law  within  ? 
Severer  in  the  logic  of  a  life  ? 
Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 
Of  earth  and  heaven  ?  and  she  of  whom 

you  speak. 
My  mother,  looks  as  whole  as  some  serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 
Of  sovereign  artists  ;  not  a  thought,  a 

touch. 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak  the 

white 
Ofthe  first  snowdrop's  inner  leaves;  I  say. 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man. 
Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in  sensual 

mire, 


THE  PRINCESS  :  A  MEDLEY. 


269 


But  whole  and  one  :  and  take  them  all- 
in-all, 
Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good,  as 

kind, 
As  truthful,  much  that  Ida  claims  as  right 
Had  ne'er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly 

theirs 
As  dues  of  Nature.     To  our  point :  not 

war  : 
Lest  I  lose  aU." 

"  Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense  " 
Said  Gama.     "  We  remember  love  our- 

self 
In  our  sweet  youth  ;  we  did  not  rate  him 

then 
This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with  blows. 
You  talk  almost  like  Ida  :  she,  can  talk  ; 
And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you  say  : 
But  you  talk  kindlier  :  we  esteem  you 

for  it.  — 
He  seems  a  gracious  and  a  gallant  Prince, 
I  would  he  had  our  daughter :  for  the  rest, 
Our    own   detention,    why,    the   causes 

weigh'd. 
Fatherly  fears  —  you  used  us  courteous- 

ly- 

We  would   do    much  to  gratify  your 

Prince  — 
We  pardon  it ;  and  for  your  ingress  here 
Upon  the  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair  land, 
You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the  night. 
Nor  in  the  furrow  broke  the  ploughman's 

head. 
Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  buss'd  the 

milking-maid, 
Nor  robb'  d  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of  cream  : 
But  let  your  Prince  (our  royal  word  upon  it, 
He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to  our 

lines. 
And  speak  with  AracT:    Arac's  word  is 

thrice 
As  ours  with  Ida  :    something  may  be 

done  — 
I  know  not  what  —  and  ours  shall  see  us 

friends. 
You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so  you 

will, 
Follow  us  :  who  knows  ?  we  four  may 

build  some  plan 
Foursquare  to  opposition." 

Here  he  reach' d 
White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire,  who 

growl' d 
An  answer  which,  half-muffled  in  his 

beard, 
Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to  go. 


Then  rode  we  with  the  old  king  across 

the  lawns 
Beneath  huge  trees,  a  thousand  rings  of 

Spring 
In  every  bole,  a  song  on  every  spray 
Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines,  and 

woke 
Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of  love 
In  the  old  king's  ears,  who  promised  help, 

and  oozed 
All  o'er  with  honey'd  answer  as  we  rode  ; 
And  blossom-fragrant  sUpt  the  heavy  dews 
Gather'd  by  night  and  peace,  with  each 

light  air 
On  our  mail'd  heads  :  but  other  thoughts 

than  Peace 
Burnt  in  us,  when  we  saw  the  embattled 

squares, 
And  squadrons  of  the  Prince,  trampling 

the  flowers 
With  clamor  :  for  among  them  rose  a  cry 
As  if  to  greet  the  king  ;  they  made  a  halt ; 
The  horses   yell'd  ;    they   clash'd   their 

arms  ;  the  drum 
Beat ;  merrily-blowing  shrill'd  the  mar- 
tial fife  ; 
And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long  horn 
And  serpent-throated  bugle,  undulated 
The  banner  :  anon  to  meet  us  lightly 

pranced 
Three  captains  out ;  nor  ever  had  I  seen 
Such  thews  of  men  :  the  midmost  and  the 

highest 
Was  Arac  :  all  about  his  motion  clung 
The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 
Of  the  East,  that  play'd  upon  them,  made 

them  glance 
Like  those  three  stars  of  the  airy  Giant's 

zone, 
That  glitter  bumish'd  by  the  frosty  dark  ; 
And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  altei-s  hue, 
And  bickers  into  red  and  emerald,  shone 
Their  morions,  wash'd  with  morning,  as 

they  came. 

And  I  that  prated  peace,  when  first  1 
heard 
War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbeast  of 

force, 
Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a  man, 
Stir  in  me  as  tostrike  :  then  took  tlic  king 
His  three  broad  sons  ;  with  now  a  wan- 
dering hand 
And  now  a  pointed  finger,  told  them  all  : 
A  common  light  of  .sniilt-s  at  our  di.sguiae 
Broke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the  windy 
jest 


270 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


Had  labor'd  down  within  his  ample  hmgs, 
The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roU'd  himself 
Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in 
words. 

"Our  land  invaded,  'sdeath  !  and  he 
himself 

Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not  war : 

And,  'sdeath  !  myself,  what  care  I,  war 
or  no  ? 

But  then  this  question  of  your  troth  re- 
mains : 

And  there  's  a  downright  honest  mean- 
ing in  her ; 

She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high  !  and 
yet 

She  ask'd  but  space  and  fairplay  for  her 
scheme  ; 

She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me  —  I  myseK, 

What  know  I  of  these  things  ?  but,  life 
and  soul ! 

I  thought  her  half-right  talking  of  her 
wrongs ; 

I  say  she  flies  too  high,  'sdeath  !  what 
of  that  ? 

I  take  her  for  the  flower  of  womankind. 

And  so  I  often  told  her,  right  or  ■RTong, 

And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those 
she  loves. 

And,  right  or  wrong,  I  care  not :  this  is  all, 

I  stand  upon  her  side  :  she  made  me 
swear  it  — 

'Sdeath  —  and  with  solemn  rites  by  can- 
dle-light — 

Swear  by  St.  something  —  I  forget  her 
name  — 

Her  that  talk'd  do^vn  the  fifty  wisest  men ; 

She  was  a  princess  too  ;  and  so  I  swore. 

Come,  this  is  all ;  she  will  not :  waive 
your  claim  : 

If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else,  at 
once 

Decides  it,  'sdeath  !  against  my  father's 
wiU." 

I  lagg'd  in  answer  loath  to  render  up 
My  precontract,  and  loath  by  brainless  war 
To  cleave  the  rift  of  difl'erence  deeper 

yet; 
Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half  aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his  lip. 
To  prick  us  on  to  combat  ' '  Like  to  like  ! 
The  woman's  garment  hid  the  woman's 

heart." 
A  taunt  that  clench'd  his  purpose  like  a 

blow  ! 
For  fiery-short  was  Cyril's  counter-scofi", 


And  sharp  I  answer'd,  touch'd  upon  the 

point 
Where  idle  boys  are   cowards   to  their 

shame, 
"  Decide  it  here  :  why  not  ?  we  are  three 

to  three." 

Then  spake  the  third  "But  three  to 

three  ?  no  more  ? 
No  more,  and  in  our  noble  sister's  cause  ? 
More,  more,  for   honor  :  every  captain 

waits 
Hungry  for  honor,  angiy  for  his  king. 
More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a  side,  that 

each 
May  breathe  himself,   and  quick  !   by 

overthrow 
Of  these  or  those,  the  question  settled  die. " 

"Yea"   answer'd   I    "for  this  wild 

wreath  of  air. 
This  flake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the  highest 
Foam  of  men's  deeds  —  this  honor,  if  ye 

will. 
It  needs  must  be  for  honor  if  at  all : 
Since,  what  decision  ?  if  we  fail,  we  fail, 
And  if  we  win,  we  fail :  she  would  not 

keep 
Her  compact."     "'Sdeath  !  but  we  will 

send  to  her," 
Said   Arac,    "worthy  reasons  why  she 

should 
Bide  by  this  issue  :  let  our  missive  thro', 
And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by  the 

word." 

"Boys!"  shriek'd  the  old  king,  but 

vainlier  than  a  hen 
To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool ;  for 

none 
Regarded  ;  neither  seem'd  there  more  to 

say: 
Back  rode  we  to  my  father's  camp,  and 

found 
He  thrice  had  sent  a  herald  to  the  gates. 
To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our  claim, 
Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With  her  own  people's  life  :  three  times 

he  went : 
The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none 

appear' d  : 
He  batter'd  at  the  doors ;   none  came  : 

the  next. 
An  awful  voice  within  had  wam'd  him 

thence : 
The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters  of 

the  plough 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


271 


Came  sallying  thro'  the  gates,  and  caught 

his  hair, 
And  so  belabor'd  him  on  rib  and  cheek 
They  made  him  wild  :  not  less  one  glance 

he  caught 
Thro'  open  doors  of  Ida  station'd  there 
Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose,  firm 
Tho'  compass'd  by  two  armies  and  the 

noise 
Of  arms  ;  and  standing  like  a  stately  Pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag. 
When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and  right 

and  left 
Suck'd  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long 

hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dash'd  to  the  vale  :  and  yet 

her  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  I  told  the  king  that  I  was 

pledged 
To  fight   in   tourney  for  my  bride,  he 

clash'd 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a  cry  ; 
Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the  lads  : 
But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded  lords 
With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and  state, 

j>erforce 
He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce 

demur : 
And  many  a  bold  knight  started  up  in 

heat. 
And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim  till 

death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the  field 
Flat  to  the  garden-wall :  'and   likewise 

here. 
Above   the  garden's  glowing  blossom- 
belts, 
A  column'd  entry  shone  and  marble  stairs, 
And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss'd  with 

Tomyris 
And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight, 
But  now  fastbarr'd  :  so  hereupon  the  flat 
All  that  long  morn  the  lists  were  ham- 

mer'd  up. 
And  all  that  mom  the  heralds  to  and  fro. 
With  message   and  defiance,  went  and 

came  ; 
Last,  Ida's  answer,  in  a  royal  hand. 
But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rolling 

words 
Oration-like.     I  kiss'd  it  and  I  read. 

"  0  brother,  you  have  known  the  pangs 
we  felt, 


What  heats  of  indignation  when  we  heard 
Of  those  that  iron-cramp'd  their  women's 

feet ; 
Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the  poor 

bride 
Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift  a 

scourge  ; 
Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the  fire 
Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots  ;  and 

of  those,  — 
Mothers,  —  that,  all  prophetic  pity,  fling 
Their  pretty  maids  in  the  running  flood, 

and  swoops 
The  viilture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the  heart 
Alade  for  all  noble  motion  :  and  1  saw 
That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker  times 
With  smoother  men  :    the  old  leaven 

leaven'd  all : 
Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for  civil 

rights. 
No  woman  named  :  therefore  I  set  my 

face 
Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for  mine 

own. 
Far  off  from  men  I  built  a  fold  for  them  : 
I  stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 
I  fenced  it  round  with  gallant  institutes. 
And  biting  la ws  to  scare  the  beasts  of  prey. 
And  prosper'd  ;  till  a  rout  of  saucy  boys 
Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr'd 

our  peace, 
Mask'd  like  our  maids,  blustering  1  know 

not  what 
Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext  held 
Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my  will 
Seal'd  not  the  bond  —  the  striplings  !  — 

for  their  sport !  — 
I  tamed  my  leopards  :  shall  I  not  tame 

these  ? 
Or  you  ?  or  I  ?  for  since  you  think  me 

touch'd 
In  honor—  what,  I  would  not  aught  of 

false  — 
Is  not  our  cause  pure  ?  and  whereas  1  know 
Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  wliat  mother's 

blood 
You  draw  from,  fight  ;  you  failing,  1  iibido 
What  end  soever  :  fail  you  will  not.  Still 
Taki!  nothislife  :  he  risk'ditfor  myown  ; 
His  mother  livens  :  yc-t  whatsoe'er  you  do. 
Fight  and  fight  well  ;  strike  and  strike 

hom(!.     O  dear 
Brothers,  the  woman's  Angel  guards  you, 

you 
Tliesolemen  to  Ik-  mingled  with  our  cause, 
Tlie  sole  men  we  siiall  jirize  in  the  iifter- 

tiiiic. 


272 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


Your  very   armor   hallow' d,    and  your 

statues 
Eear'd,  sung  to,  when,  thisgad-fly  brush'd 

aside, 
We  plant  a  solid  foot  into  the  Time, 
And  mould  a  generation  strong  to  move 
With  claim  on  claim  from  right  to  right, 

till  she 
Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children's, 

know  herself ; 
And  Knowledge  in  our  own  land  make 

her  free, 
And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned 

twins, 
Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the  fiery 

grain 
Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that  orbs 
Between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern 

morn." 

Then  came  a  postscript  dash'd  across 

the  rest. 
' '  See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  your 

camp : 
We  seem  a  nest  of  traitors  —  none  to 

trust 
Since   our    arms    fail'd  —  this    Egypt- 
plague  of  men  ! 
Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their 

homes. 
Than  thus  man-girdled  here  :  indeed  I 

think 
Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 
Of  ono  unworthy  mother ;  which  she  left : 
She  shall  not  have  it  back  :    the  child 

shall  grow 
To  prize  the  authenticmother  of  her  mind. 
I  took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 
This  morning  :  there  the  tender  orphan 

hands 
Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seem'd  to  charm 

from  thence 
The  wrath  I  nursed  against  the  world  : 

farewell." 

I  ceased  ;  he  said  :  "  Stubborn,  but 
she  may  sit 

Upon  a  king's  right  hand  in  thunder- 
storms, 

And  breed  up  warriors  !  See  now,  tho' 
yourself 

Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to  sloughs 

That  swallow  common  sense,  the  spin- 
dling king. 

This  Gama  swamp'd  in  lazy  tolerance. 

When  the  man  wants  weight,  the  wo- 
man takes  it  up. 


And  topples  down  the  scales ;  but  this 

is  fixt 
As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of  all , 
Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the  hearth : 
Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle 

she  : 
Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with  the 

heart : 
Man  to  command  and  woman  to  obey  ; 
All  else  confusion.     Look  you  !  the  gray 

mare 
Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  herwhinnyshrills 
From  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small  good- 
man 
Shrinks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the  fires 

of  Hell 
Mix  with  his  hearth :  but  you  —  she  's 

yet  a  colt  — 
Take,  break  her  :  strongly  groom' d  and 

straitly  curb'd 
She  might  not  rank  with  those  detestable 
That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home,  and 

brawl 
Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs  in 

the  street. 
They  say  she 's  comely  ;  there's  the  fairer 

chance : 
I  like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at  her  ! 
Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we, 
But  suffers  change  of  frame.     A  lusty 

brace 
Of  twins  m  ay  weed  her  of  her  folly.    Boy, 
The  bearing  and  the  training  of  a  child 
Is  woman's  wisdom." 

Thus  the  hard  old  king  : 
I  took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly  noon  : 
I  pored  upon  her  letter  which  I  held. 
And  on  the  little  clause  "take  not  his 

life  "  : 
I  mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the 

woods, 
And  on  the  "Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt 

win"  : 
I  thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had 

said, 
And  how  the  strange  betrothment  was 

to  end : 
Then  I  remember'd  that  burnt  sorcerer's 

curse 
That  one  should  fight  with  shadows  and 

should  fall  ; 
And  like  a  flash  the  weird  affection  came  : 
King,  camp,  and  college  turn'd  to  hollow 

shows ; 
I  seem'd  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts. 
And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts. 
To  dream  myself  tlie  shadow  of  a  dream : 


THE   PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


273 


And  ere  I  woke  it  was  tlie  point  of  noon, 
The  lists  were  ready.     Empanoplied  and 

plumed 
We  enter'd  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed  to  fifty,  till  the  trumpet  blared 
At  the  barrier  like  a  wild  horn  in  a  land 
Of  echoes,  and  a  moment,  and  once  more 
The  trumpet,  and  again  :   at  which  the 

storm 
Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge  of 

spears 
And  riders  front  to  front,  until  they  closed 
In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering 

points, 
And  thunder.     Yet  it  seem'd  a  dream, 

I  dream' d 
Of  fighting.     On  his  haunches  rose  the 

steed, 
And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the  lance, 
And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang  the 

fire. 
Part  sat  like  rocks  :  part  reel' d  but  kept 

their  seats  : 
Part  roU'd  on  the  earth  and  rose  again 

and  drew  : 
Part  stumbled  mixt  with  floundering 

horses.     Down 
From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac's  side,  and 

down 
From  Arac's  arm,  as  from  a  giant's  flail, 
The  large  blows  rain'd,  as  here  and  every- 
where 
He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ringing 

lists. 
And  all  the  -plain,  —  brand,  mace,  and 

shaft,  and  shield  — 
Shock'd,likean  iron-clanging  anvil  bang'd 
With  hammers  ;  till  I  thought,  can  this 

be  he 
From  Gama's  dwai-fish  loins  ?  if  this  be 

so. 
The  mother  makes  us  most  —  and  in  my 

dream 
I  glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace-front 
Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies' 

eyes. 
And  highest,  among  the  statues,  statue- 
like, 
Between  a  cymbal'd  Miriam  and  a  Jael, 
With  Psyche's  bal)e,  was  Ida  watching  us, 
A  single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair. 
Like  a  Saint's  glory  up  in  heaven  :  but 

.she 
No  saint  —  inexorable  —  no  tenderness  — 
Too  liard,  too  cruel :  yet  she  sees  me  fight. 
Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall  !    with  that  1 

drave* 


Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a 

Prince, 
And  Cyril,  one.     Yea,  let  me  make  my 

dream 
All  that  I  would.    But  that  large-mould- 
ed man, 
His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a  wake. 
Made  at  me  thro'  the  press,  and,  stagger- 
ing back 
With   stroke   on   stroke  the  horse  and 

horseman,  came 
As  comes  a  piUar  of  electric  cloud. 
Flaying  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the 

drains. 
And  shadowing  down  the  champaign  till 

it  strikes 
On  a  wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and 

cracks,  and  splits, 
And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a  roar 

that  Earth 
Reels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry  ;  for  every- 
thing 
Gave  way  before  him  :  only  Florian,  he 
That  loved  me  closer  than  his  own  right 

eye, 
Thrust  in  between  ;  but  Arac  rode  him 

down : 
And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push'd  against  the 

Prince, 
With  Psyche's  color  round  his  helmet, 

tough. 
Strong,    supple,    sinew  -  corded,    apt    at 

arms  ; 
But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that 

-  smote 
And  threw  him  :  last  I  spurr'd  ;  I  felt 

my  veins 
Stretch  with  fierce  heat ;  a  moment  hand 

to  hand, 
And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  to  horse 

we  hung, 
Till  I  struck  out  and  shouted  ;  the  blade 

glanced  ; 
I  did  but  shear  a  feather,  and  dream  and 

truth 
Flow'd  from  me  ;  darkness  closed  me  ; 

and  I  fell. 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead 
She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry  : 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  .said, 
"She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  jjraiscd  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  him  worthy  to  Ix-  lovc<l. 


274 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY, 


*  Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 
*  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee.'  " 


Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face  ; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  - — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  - 
"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


VL 

My  dream  had  never  died  or  lived  again. 
As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I  lay ; 
Seeing  I  saw  not,  hearing  not  I  heard  : 
Tho',   if  I  saw  not,   yet  they  told  nm 

aU 
So  often  that  I  speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem'd,  or  so  they  said  to  me. 
That  all   things  grew  more  tragic  and 
more  strange ;         • 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


275 


That  when  our  side  was  vanquish' d  and 

my  cause 
For  ever  lost,  there  went  up  a  great  cry, 
The  Prince  is  slain.     My  father  heard 

and  ran 
I  n  on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my  casque 
And  grovell'd  on  my  body,  and  after  him 
Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche's  babe  in  arm  :    there  on 

the  roofs 
Like  thatgi-eat  dame  of  Lapidoth  she  sang. 

"Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  havefall'n  : 

the  seed. 
The  little  seed  theylaugh'dat  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown 

a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A  thousand  arras  and  rushes  to  the  Sun. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n  : 
they  came  ; 

The  leaves  were  wet  with  women's  tears  : 
they  heard 

A  noise  of  songs  they  would  not  under- 
stand : 

They  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the 
fall, 

And  would  have  strown  it,  and  are  fall'n 
themselves. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n  : 

they  came. 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes :  lothe  tree ! 
But  we  will  make  it  fagots  for  the  hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof 

and  floor. 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n  : 
they  struck  ; 

With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  them- 
selves, nor  knew 

There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain  : 

Tlie  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their 
anns. 

Their  arms  were  shattcr'd  to  the  shoulder 
blade. 

"Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  but  this 

.shall  grow 
A   night  of  Summer   from  the  heat,  a 

breadth 
Of  Autumn,  (lrop[iiiig  fruits  of  power ; 

and  roll'd 


With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star, 

the  fangs 
Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

"And  now,  0  maids,  behold  our  sanc- 
tuary 
Is  violate,  our  laws  broken  :  fear  we  not 
To  break  them   more  in  their  behoof, 

whose  arms 
Champion'd  our  cause  and  won  it  with 

a  day 
Blanch'd  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual 

feast. 
When  dames  and  heroines  of  the  golden 

year 
Shall  strip  a  hundred  hollows  bare  of 

Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three  :  but 

come. 
We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights  are 

won. 
Let  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with  coarse 

mankind, 
111  nurses  ;  but  descend,  and  proffer  these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood   and  cause, 

that  there 
Lie   bruised  and    maira'd,   the    tender 

ministries 
Of  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet  in 

her  arms. 
Descending,    burst    the    great    bronze 

valves,  and  led 
A  hundred  maids  in  train  across  the  Park. 
Some  cowl'd,  and  some  bare-headed,  on 

they  came. 
Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest :  by 

them  went 
The  enaraor'd  air  sighing,  and  on  their 

curls 
From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  wavering 

fell. 
And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of  light 
Slided,  they  moving  under  shade  :  but 

Blanche 
At  di.stance  foUow'd  :  .so  they  came  :  anon 
Thro'  ojK'n  field  into  the  lists  they  wound 
Timorously  ;  and  as  the  lead(!rof  theli<Td 
That  holds  a  stately  fretwork  to  the  Sun, 
And  follow'd  up  by  a  hundrcil  airy  does, 
Stei)S  with  a  tender  foot,  light  as  (in  air, 
Tile  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated  on 
To    wheie   her  wounded   brethren   lay ; 

there  stay'd  ; 


276 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


Knelt  on  one  knee,  —  the  child  on  one, 
—  and  prest 

Their  hands,  and  caU'd  them  dear  deliv- 
erers, 

And  happy  warriors,  and  immortal  names, 

And  said  "  You  shall  not  lie  in  the  tents 
but  here. 

And  nursed  by  those  for  whom  you 
fought,  and  served 

With  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  or  was 

it  chance. 
She  past  my  way.     Up  started  from  my 

side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelpless 

eye. 
Silent ;  but  when  she  saw  me  lying  stark, 
Dishelm'd  and  mute,  and  motionlessly 

pale, 
Cold  ev'n  to  her,  she  sigh'd  ;  and  when 

she  saw 
The  haggard  father's  face  and  reverend 

beard 
Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the  blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shudder' d,  a  twitch  of  pain 
Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o'er  her  fore- 
head past 
A  shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and  she 

said  : 
"He  saved  my  life  :    my  brother  slew 

him  for  it." 
No  more  :  at  which  the  king  in  bitter 

scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and 

the  tress, 
And  held  them  up  :  she  saw  them,  and  a 

day 
Rose  from  the  distance  on  her  memory. 
When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother,  shore 

the  tress 
Withkisses,  ere  the  days  of  Lady  Blanche : 
And  then  once  more  she  look'd  at  my 

pale  face  : 
Till  understanding  all  the  foolish  work 
Of  Fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all. 
Her  iron  will  was  broken  in  her  mind  ; 
Her  noble  heart  was  molten  in  her  breast ; 
She  bow'd,  she  set  the  child  on  the  earth  ; 

she  laid 
A  feeling  finger  on  my  brows,  and  pres- 
ently 
"0  Sire,"  she  said,    "he  lives:   he  is 

not  dead  : 
O  let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren  here 
In  our  own  palace  :  we  will  tend  on  him 
Like  one  of  these  ;  if  so,  by  any  means. 


To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks,  that 

make 
Our  progress  falter  to  the  woman's  goal." 

She  said  :  but  at  the  happy  word  "  he 

lives  " 
My  father  stoop' d,  re-father'd  o'er  my 

wounds. 
So  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life, 
With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and  even- 
ing mixt 
Their  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche  ever 

stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by  us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden 

brede. 
Lay  like  a  new-fall'n  meteor  on  the  grass, 
Uncared  for,  spied  its  mother  and  began 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and  to 

dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  innocent 

arms 
And  lazy  lingering  fingers.  She  the  appeal 
Brook'd  not,  but  clamoring  out,  "  Mine  — 

mine  —  not  yours, 
It  is  not  yours,  but  mine  :  give  me  the 

child" 
Ceased  all  on  tremble  :  piteous  was  the  cry: 
So    stood   the   unhappy  mother    open- 
mouth' d, 
And  tum'd  each  face  her  way  :  wan  was 

her  cheek 
With  hoUow  watch,  her  blooming  man- 
tle toi-n. 
Red  grief  and  mother's  hunger  in  her  eye, 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls, 

and  half 
The  sacredmother'sbosom,  panting,  burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe  ;  but  she  nor 

cared 
Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,  till  Ida  heard, 
Look'd  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me, 

stood 
Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her  glance 
The  mother,  me,  the  child ;  but  he  that  lay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter' d  as  he  was, 
Trail'd  himself  up  on  one  knee  ;  then  he 

drew 
Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  down  she 

look'd 
At  the  arm'd  man  sideways,  pitying  as  it 

seem'd. 
Or  self-involved  ;  but  when  she  learnt  his 

face. 
Remembering  his  ill-omen'd  song,  arose 
Once  more  thro'  all  her  height,  and  o'er 

him  grew 


THE   PKINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


277 


Tall  as  a  figure  leugthen'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and  he 
said  : 

"0  fair  and  strong  and  terrible !  Lioness 
That  with  your  long  locks  play  the  Lion's 

mane  ! 
But  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two  more 

terrible 
And  stronger.     See,  your  foot  is  on  our 

necks, 
We  vanquish'd,  you  the  Victor  of  your 

will. 
What  would  you  more  ?  give  her  the  child ! 

remain 
Orb'd  in  your  isolation :  he  is  dead. 
Or  all  as  dead :  henceforth  we  let  you  be  : 
Win  you  the  hearts  of  women ;  and  beware 
Lest,   where  you  seek  the  common  love 

of  these. 
The    common  hate   with  the  revolving 

wheel 
Should  drag  you  down,  and  some  great 

Nemesis 
Break  from  a  darken'd  future,  crown'd 

with  fire, 
And  tread  you  out  forever :  but  howsoe'er 
Fix'd  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own  arms 
To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to  her, 
Give  her  the  child !  0  if,  I  say,  you  keep 
One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  if  you 

loved 
The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dandled 

you, 
Or  own  one  part  of  sense  not  flint  to  prayer, 
Give  her  the  child !  or  if  you  scorn  to 

lay  it. 
Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt  with 

yours, 
Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her  one  fault 
The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that   could 

not  kill, 
Give  me  it:  I  will  give  it  her." 

He  said  : 
At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation  roU'd 
Dry  flame,  she  listening ;  after  sank  and 

sank 
And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellowing, 

dwelt 
Full  on  the  child ;  she  took  it :  "  Pretty 

bud! 
Lily  of  the  vale  !  half  open'd  bell  of  the 

woods ! 
Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when  a  world 
Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  system 

made 
No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery, 


Pledge  of  a  love  not  to  be  mine,  farewell ; 
These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old. 
We  two  must  part  :  and  yet  how  fain  was  I 
To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in  mine, 

to  think 
I  might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I  felt 
Tliy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren 

breast 
In  the  dead  prime :  but  may  thy  mother 

prove 
As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  tome  ! 
And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the  yoke, 

I  wish  it 
Gentle  as  freedom" — here  she  kiss'd  it : 

then — 
"All  good  go  with  thee  !  take  it  Sir" 

and  so 
Laid  the   soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed 

hands. 
Who  turn'd  half-round  to  Psyche  as  she 

sprang 
To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in 

thanks ; 
Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from  head 

to  foot, 
And  hugg'd  and  never  hugg'd  it  close 

enough. 
And  in  her  hunger  mouth'd  and  mum- 
bled it, 
And  hid  her  bosom  with  it ;  after  that 
Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppliantly ; 

"  We  two  were  friends :  I  go  to  mine 

own  land 
For  ever :  find  some  other :  as  for  me 
I  scarce  am  fit  for  your  great  plans  :  yet 

speak  to  me, 
Say   one   soft    word   and   let    me   part 

forgiven. " 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the  child. 
Then  Arac.    "Ida — 'sdeath  !  you  blame 

the  man  ; 
You  wrong  yourselves  —  the  woman  is 

so  hard 
Upon  the  woman.     Come,  a  grace  to  me ! 
I  am  your  warrior :  I  and  mine  have  fouglit 
Your  battle  :  kiss  her ;  take  her  hand, 

she  weeps : 
'Sdeath  !  I  would  sooner  fight  thrice  o'er 

than  see  it." 

But  Ida  spoke  not.gazingontheground, 
And    reddening  in  the  furrows  of   his 

chin, 
And  moved  b<.'yoiid  his  custom,   Gama 

said  : 


278 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


"  I  've  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the 

blood, 
And  I  believe  it.  Not  one  word?  not  one? 
Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper  ?  not 

from  me, 
Not  from  your  mother  now  a  saint  with 

sd,in,ts. 
She  said  you  had  a  heart — I  heard  her 

say  it — 
'Our   Ida  has   a  heart' — just   ere  she 

died — 
'  But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 
Be  near  her  still '  and  I  —  I  sought  for 

one — 
All  people  said  she  had  authority — 
The  Lady  Blanche  :  much  profit  !     Not 

one  word ; 
No  !  tho'  your  father  sues :  see  how  you 

stand 
Stiif  as  Lot'swife,  and  all  the  good  knights 

maini'd, 
I  trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to  death. 
For  your  wild  whim  :  and  was  it  then  for 

this, 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up. 
Where  we  withdrew  from  summer  heats 

and  state, 
And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath  the 

planes, 
And  many  a  pleasant  hour  with  her  that's 

gone, 
Ere  you  were  born  to  vex  us  ?  Is  it  kind  ? 
Speak  to  her  I  say :  is  thisnot  she  of  whom. 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush'd  you  said 

to  me 
Now  had  you  got  a  friend  of  your  own  age, 
Now  could  you  share  your  thought ;  now 

should  men  see 
Two  women  faster  welded  in  one  love 
Than  pairs  of  wedlock  ;  she  you  walk'd 

with,  she 
You  talk'd  with,  whole  nights  long,  up 

in  the  tower. 
Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth, 
And  right  ascension.  Heaven  knows  what ; 

and  now 
A  word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly  word. 
Not  one  to  spare  her:  out  upon  you,  flint ! 
You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any  ;  nay, 
You  shame  your  mother's  judgment  too. 

Not  one? 
You  will  noi?  well — no  heart  have  you, 

or  such 
As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a  nut 
Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitterness." 
So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond  his 

wont. 


But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain'd  of  her 

force 
By  many  a  varying  influence  and  so  long. 
Down  thro'  her  limbs  a  drooping  languor 

wept : 
Her  head  a  little  bent ;  and  on  her  mouth 
A  doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a  clouded 

moon 
In  a  still  water  :  then  brake  out  my  sire 
Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my  wounds. 

"  0  you. 
Woman,  whom  we  thought  woman  even 

now, 
And  were  half  fool'd  to  let  you  tend  our 

son, 
Because  he  might  have  wish'd  it — but 

we  see 
The  accomplice  of  your  madness  unfor- 

given. 
And  think  that  youmightmixhis  draught 

with  death. 
When    your  skies   change   again  :    the 

rougher  hand 
Is  safer  :  on  to  the  tents  :  take  up  the 

Prince." 

He  rose,  and  while  each  ear  was  prick'd 
to  attend 
A  tempest,  thro'  the  cloud  that  dimm'd 

her  broke 
A  genial  warmth  and  light  once  more, 

and  shone 
Thro'  glittering  drops  on  her  sad  friend. 
"Come  hither. 

0  Psyche,"  she  cried  out,  "  embrace  me, 

come. 
Quick  while  I  melt ;  make  reconcilement 

sure 
With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind  an 

hour  : 
Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander  so  ! 
Kiss  and  be  friends,  like  children  being 

chid  ! 
/  seem  no  more  :  /want  forgiveness  too  : 

1  should  have  had  to  do  with  none  but 

maids. 
That  have  no  links  with  men.     Ah  false 

but  dear, 
Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why  ?  — 

why  ?  —  Yet  see. 
Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you  yet 

once  more 
With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion, 
And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  0  sire. 
Grant  me  your  son,  to  nurse,   to  wait 

upon  him. 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


279 


Like  mine  own  brother.     For  my  debt  to 

him, 
This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I 

know  it ; 
Taunt  me  no  more  :  yourself  and  yours 

shall  have 
Free  adit ;  we  will  scatter  all  our  maids 
Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper 

hearth  : 
What  use  to  keep  them  here — now  ?  grant 

my  prayer. 
Help,  father,  brother,  help  ;  speak  to  the 

king: 
Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch  of 

that 
Which  kills  me  with  myself,  and  drags 

me  down 
From  my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up  with  all 
The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  womankind, 
Poor  weakling  ev'n  as  they  are." 

Passionate  tears 
Follow'd  :  the  king  replied  not :   Cyril 

said  : 
"  Your  brother,  Lady,  —  Florian,  — ask 

for  him 
Of  your  great  head  —  for  he  is  wounded 

too  — 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the 

prince. " 
"  Ay  so,"  said  Ida  with  a  bitter  smile, 
"Our  laws  are  broken  :  let  him  enter  too. " 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mournful 

song. 
And  had  a  cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 
Petition'd  too  for  him.     "Ay  so,"  she 

said, 
"  I  stagger  in  the  stream  :  I  cannot  keep 
My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling 

hour  : 
We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  butletit  be." 
"  Ay  so  ? "  said  Blanche  :  "  Amazed  am 

I  to  hear 
Your  Highness :  but  your  Highness  breaks 

with  ease 
The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make  : 

't  was  L 
I  had  been  wedded  wife,  I  knew  mankind. 
And  block'd  them  out ;  but  these  men 

came  to  woo 
Your  Highness  —  verily  I  think  to  win." 

So  she,  and  tum'd  askance  a  wintry 

eye  : 
But  Ida  with  a  voice,  that  like  a  bell 
Toll'd  by  an  earthquake  in  a  trembling 

tower, 
Uangruin,  answer'd  full  of  grief  and  scorn. 


"Fling  our  doors  wide  !  all,  all,  not 

one,  but  all, 
Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's  soul. 
Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend  or  foe, 
Shall  enter,  if  he  will.     Let  our  girls  flit. 
Till  the  storm  die !  but  had  you  stood  by 

us. 
The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from  his 

base 
Had  left  us  rock.     She  fain  would  sting 

us  too. 
But  shall  not.     Pass,  and  mingle  with 

your  likes. 
We  brook  no  further  insult  but  are  gone." 

She  tum'd  ;  the  very  nape  of  her  white 

neck 
Was  rosed  with  indignation  :   but  the 

Prince 
Her  brother  came  ;  the  king  her  father 

charm'd 
Her  wounded  soul  with  words  :  nor  did 

mine  own 
Refuse  her  proff'er,  lastly  gave  his  hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dead  weights, 

and  bare 
Straight  to  the  doors  :  to  them  the  doors 

gave  way 
Groaning,  and  in  the  Vestal  entry  shriek'd 
The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels : 
And  on  they  moved  and  gain'd  the  hall, 

and  there 
Rested  :   but  great  the  crush  was,  and 

each  base. 
To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns 

drown'd 
In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 
Of  female  whisperers  :  at  the  further  end 
Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  gi'eat  cats 
Close  by  her,  like  supporters  on  a  shield, 
Bow-back'd  with  fear  :  but  in  the  centre 

stood 
The   common   men   with   rolling  eyes  ; 

amazed 
Tliey  glared  upon  the  women,  and  agli.ust 
The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent,  save 
When  armor  clash'd  or  jingled,  while  the 

•lay, 
Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall,  and 

shot 
A  flying  s|)lendor  out  of  brass  and  steel. 
That  o'lT  tlie  statues  leapt  from  head  to 

head. 
Now  fired  an  angry  Pallas  on  the  helm, 
Now  set  a  wnithful  I  Han's  moon  on  flame, 
And  now  and  tlifii  an  echo  started  up, 


280 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


And  shuddering  fled  from  room  to  room, 

and  died 
Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 
Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance  : 
And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs, 

and  thro' 
The  long-laid  galleries  past  a  hundred 

doors 
To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from  sound, 

and  due 
To  languid  limbs  and  sickness  ;  left  me 

in  it ; 
And  others  otherwhere  they  laid  ;  and  all 
That  afternoon  a  sound  arose  of  hoof 
And  chariot,  manyamaiden  passing  home 
Till  happier  times ;  but  some  were  left 

of  those 
Heldsagest,  and  the  great  lords  out  and  in. 
From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside  the 

walls, 
Walk'd  at  their  will,  and  everything  was 

changed. 


Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw 
the  sea  ; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and 

take  the  shape, 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape ; 
But  0  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  what  answer  should  I 
give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 
Yet,  0  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee 
die! 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  sh  ould  bid  thee  live ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are 
seal'd : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in 

vain  : 
Let  the  great  river  take   me  to  the 
main  : 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


VII. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated. 
So  their  fair  college  tum'd  to  hospital ; 
At  first  with  all  confusion  :  by  and  by 
Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other  laws  : 


A  kindlier  influence  reign'd  ;  and  every- 
where 

Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 

Hung  round  the  sick  :  the  maidens  came, 
they  talk'd, 

They  sang,  they  read  :  till  she  not  fair. 


To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  became 
Her  former  beauty  treble  ,  and  to  and  fro 
With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel  of- 
fices. 
Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act. 
And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they 
moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell. 
And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent  with 

shame. 
Old  studies  fail'd ;   seldom  she  spoke  ; 

but  oft 
Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone  for 

hours 
On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of  men 
Darkening  her  female  field :    void  was 

her  use, 
And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to  gaze 
O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great  black 

cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of 

night, 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to 

shore. 
And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from  the 

sand. 
And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn  by 

tarn 
Expunge  the  world  :  so  fared  she  gazing 

there  ; 
So  black en'd  all  her  world  in  secret,  blank 
And  waste  it  seem'd  and  vain  ;  till  down 

she  came. 
And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among 

the  sick. 

And  twilight  dawn'd  ;  and  morn  by 

mom  the  lark 
Shot  up  and  shrill' d  in  flickering  gjTcs, 

but  I 
Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life  : 
And   twilight  gloom'd  ;    and    broader  - 

grown  the  bowers 
Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves, 

and  Heaven, 
Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell ;  but  I, 
Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could 

reach  me,  lay 
Quite  sunder'd  from  the  moving  Universe, 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


281 


Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the 

hand 
That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in  their 

sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian  :  with  her 

oft, 
Melissa  came  ;  for  Blanche  had  gone,  but 

left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should 

keep 
CJourt-favor  :    here  and  there  the  small 

bright  head, 
A  light  of  healing,  glanced  about  the 

couch. 
Or  thro'  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 
Peep'd,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded  man 
With  blush   and   smile,  a   medicine  in 

themselves 
To  wile  the  lengthfromlanguoroushours, 

and  draw 
The  sting  from  pain  ;  nor  seetn'd  it  strange 

that  soon 
He  rose  up  whole,  and  those  fair  chari- 
ties 
Join'd  at  her  side  ;  nor  stranger  seem'd 

that  hearts 
So  gentle,  so  employ'd,  should  close  in 

love. 
Than  when  two  dewdrops  on  the  petal 

shake 
To   the   same   sweet  air,   and    tremble 

deeper  down, 
And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit  ob- 

tain'd 
At  first  with  Psyche.    Not  tho'  Blanche 

had  sworn 
That  after  that  dark  nighj;  among  the 

fields. 
She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own 

good  name  ; 
Not  tho'  he  built  upon  the  babe  restored ; 
Nor  tho'  she  liked  him,  yielded  she,  but 

fear'd 
To  incense  the  Head  once  more  ;  till  on 

a  day 
When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 
Seen  but  of  Psyche  :  on  her  foot  she  hung 
A  moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which  her 

face 
A  little flush'd, and  shepast  on  ;  buteach 
Assumed  from  thence  a  half-consent  in- 
volved 
In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were  at 

peace. 


Nor  only  these  :  Love  in  the  sacred  hall? 
Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on  maid 

and  man. 
Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my  claim. 
Nor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled  ;  nor 

yet 
Did  those  twin  brothers,  risen  again  and 

whole  ; 
Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I  lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she  sat : 
Then  came  a  change  ;  for  sometimes  I 

would  catch 
Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
"  You  are  not  Ida  "  ;  clasp  it  once  again. 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  1  knew  her  not. 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony. 
And  call  her  hard  and  cold  wliich  seem'd 

a  truth  : 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I  should  lose  my 

mind, 
And  often  she  believed  that  I  should  die : 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care, 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary 

noons, 
And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark,  when 

clocks 
Throbb'd  thunder  thro'  the  palace  floors, 

or  call'd 
On   flying  Time  from  all   their  silver 

tongues  — 
And  out  of  memories   of  her  kindlier 

days, 
And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father's  grief. 
And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in  heart  — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken  love, 
And   lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter'd 

dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands, 
And  wordless  broodings  on  th(!  wa-sted 

cheek  — 
From  all  a  closer  interest  flourish'd  up, 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last,  to 

these. 
Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with 

tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier  ;  frail  at 

first 
An<l  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself, 
But  such  as  gather'd  color  day  l)y  day. 

Last   I  woke  sane,  but  wellnigh  close 
to  death 
For   weakness  :    it  was  evening  :    silent 
light 


282 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein  were 

wrought 
Two  grand  designs  ;  for  on  one  side  arose 
The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and  storm'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.    Titanic  shapes,  they 

cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among  the 

rest 
A  dwarf-like  Cato  cower'd.    On  the  other 

side 
Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax ;  behind, 
A  train  of  dames  :  by  axe  and  eagle  sat. 
With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in  Roman 

scowls. 
And  half  the  wolf  s-milk  curdled  in  their 

veins. 
The  fierce  triumvirs  ;  ^and  before  them 

paused 
Hortensia,  pleading  :  angry  was  her  face. 

I  saw  the  forms :  I  knew  not  where  I 

was: 
They  did  but  look  like  hollow  shows ;  nor 

more 
Sweet  Ida :  palm  to  palm  she  sat :  the  dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her  shape 
And  rounder  seem'd :  I  moved :  I  sigh'd : 

a  touch 
Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon  my 

hand: 
Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 
Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what  life  I 

had. 
And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  unfold. 
So  drench'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the  sun, 
Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on  her 
Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter'd  whisper- 

ingly  : 

"If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some 
sweet  dream, 
I  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself  : 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I  knew, 
I  ask  you  nothing  :  only,  if  a  dream. 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.     I    shall   die 

to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I  die. " 

I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in 

trance, 
That  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his 

friends. 
And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make 

one  sign. 
But  lies  and   dreads  his   doom.      She 

tum'd  ;  she  paused ; 
Shestoop'd ;  andoutoflanguorleaptacry; 


Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of 

death ; 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips  ; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms  she 

rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame ;  and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe, 
And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her  mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when  she 

came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with 

love; 
And  down  the  streaming  crystal  dropt ; 

and  she 
Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides, 
Naked,  a  double  light  in  air  and  wave. 
To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck'd 

her  out 
For  worship  without   end ;  nor  end  of 

mine, 
Stateliest,  for  thee !  but  mute  she  glided 

forth. 
Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I  sank  and 

slept, 
Fill'd  thro'  and  thro'  with  Love,  a  happy 

sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I  woke  :  she,  near 
me,  held 
A  volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land : 
There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she  read. 

"  Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now 
the  white  ; 
Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk  ; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyi-y 

font : 
The  fire-fly  wakens :  waken  thou  with  me. 

"  Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock 
like  a  ghost. 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

"  Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the 
stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

"  Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and 
leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thythoughts  in  me. 

"Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up. 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and 

slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me." 


THE  PKINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


283 


"  Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height ; 
What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd  sang) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills  J  " 


I  heard  her  turn  the  page  ;  she  found 
a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she 
read : 

"Come  down,  0  maid,  from  yonder 
mountain  height : 
What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shep- 
herd sang) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the 

hills  ? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens, 

and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire  ; 
And  come,  for  liove  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  comcj  tlion  down 
And  find  him  ;  by  the  happy  threshold,  lie. 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats. 


Or  foxlike  in  the  vine  ;  nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  silver 

horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white 

ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven 

falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors  : 
But  follow ;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee 

down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley  ;  let  the  wild 
Ijcan-headed  Eagles  yeln  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and 

spill 
Their    thousand    wreaths    of    dangling 

water-smoke, 
That  like  a  broken  jmrpose  waste  in  air  : 
So  waste  not  thou  ;  but  come ;  for  all 

the  vales 


284 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Await  thee  ,  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee  ;  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every 

sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is 

sweet ; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the 

lawn, 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees." 

So  she  low-toned  ;  while  with  shut 

eyes  I  lay 
Listening ;  then  look'd.     Pale  was  the 

perfect  face  ; 
The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labor'd  ;  and 

meek 
Seem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  lu- 
minous eyes. 
And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand. 

She  said 
Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had  fail'd 
In  sweet  humility  ;  had  fail'd  in  all ; 
That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a  block 
Left  in  the  quarry  ;  but  she  still  were  loath, 
She  still  were  loath  to  yield  herself  to  one. 
That  wholly  scom'd  to  help  their  equal 

rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbarous 

laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to  judge  their  cause 

from  her 
That  wrong'd  it,  sought  far  less  for  truth 

than  power 
In  knowledge  :   something  wild  within 

her  breast, 
A  greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat  her 

down. 
And  she  had  nursed  me  there  from  week 

to  week  : 
Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time.  In  part 
It  was  ill  counsel  had  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts  :  yet  was  she  but  a 

girl  — 
"Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a  Queen  of 

farce  ! 

When  comesanothersuch  ?  never,  I  think. 

Till  the  Sun  drop  dead  from  the  signs." 

Her  voice 

Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon  her 

hands, 
And  her  great  heart  thro'  all  the  faultful 

Past 
Went  sorrowing  in  a  pause  I  dared  not 

break  ; 
Till  notice  of  a  change  in  the  dark  world 
Was  lispt  about  the  acacias,  and  a  bird, 


That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 
Sent  from  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for  light : 
She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume  fell. 

"  Blame  not  thyself  too  much,"  I  said, 

"nor  blame 
Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barbarous 

laws  ; 
These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the  world 

till  now. 
Henceforth  thou  hast  a  helper,  me,  that 

know 
The  woman's  cause  is  man's  :  they  rise 

or  sink 
Together,  dwarf  d  orgodlike,  bondorfree : 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with  man 
The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares  with 

man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him  to 

one  goal. 
Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her 

hands  — 
If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miserable. 
How  shall  men  grow  ?  but  work  no  more 

alone ! 
Our  place  is  much  :  as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding 

her  — 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her 

down  — 
Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of  all 
Within  her — let  hermakeherselfherown 
To  giA^e  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  woman- 
hood. 
For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man. 
But  diverse  :  could  we  make  her  as  the 

man. 
Sweet  Love  were  slain  :  his  dearest  bond 

is  this. 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  the  longyearsliker  must  they  grow ; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man  ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height. 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw 

the  world  ; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward 

care, 
Nor  lose  the  childlikein  the  larger  mind ; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words  ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of 

Time, 
Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ'd  in  all  their 

powers, 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


285 


Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing  each, 

Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who  love. 

Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to 
men: 

Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals, 
chaste  and  calm  : 

Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  hu- 
mankind. 

May  these  things  be  !  " 

Sighing  she  spoke  "  I  fear 

They  will  not." 

"  Dear,  but  let  us  tjTpe  them  now 

In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watch- 
word rest 

Of  equal  ;  seeing  either  sex  alone 

Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 

Nor  equal,  nor  unequal :  each  fulfils 

Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in 
thought, 

Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow. 

The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 

The  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  one 
fall  stroke, 

Life." 

AndagainsighingshespoTce :  "Adream 

That  once  was  mine  !  what  woman  taught 
you  this  ? " 

"Alone"  I  said  "from  earlier  than  I 

know. 
Immersed  in  rich  foreshadowings  of  the 

world, 
I  loved  the  woman :  he,  that  doth  not,  lives 
A  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  self, 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than 

death. 
Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  clipt  with 

crime : 
Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved 

her,  one 
Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household 

ways, 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants. 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men. 
Who  look'dall  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 
On  tiptoe  seem'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds 

perforce 
Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they 

moved. 
And  girdled  her  with  music      Happy  he 
With  such  amother !  faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all 

things  high 


Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and 

fall  . 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 

"  But  I," 
Said  Ida,  tremulously,  "  so  all  unlike — 
It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself  with 

words  : 
This  mother  is  your  model.    I  have  heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts  :  they  well  might 

be  :  1  seem 
A  mockery  to  my  own  self.  Never,  Prince ; 
You  cannot  love  me." 

"  Nay  but  thee  "  I  said 
"  From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pictured 

eyes. 
Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen, 

and  saw 
Thee  woman  thro'  the  crust  of  iron  moods 
That  mask'd  thee  from  men's  reverence 

up,  and  forced 
Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood  : 

now, 
Giv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro' 

thee. 
Indeed  I  love  :  the  new  day  comes,  the 

light 
Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for  faults 
Lived  over  :  lift  thine  eyes  ;  my  doubts 

are  dead. 
My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows  :  the 

change. 
This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill'd  it. 

Dear, 
Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine. 
Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half- 
world  ; 
Approach  and  fear  not ;  breathe  upon  my 

brows  ; 
In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and 

this 
Is  mom  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to-come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland 

reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds. 

Forgive  me, 
I  waste  my  heart  in  signs  :  let  be.     My 

bride. 
My  wife,  my  life.     0  we  will  walk  this 

world. 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end. 
And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across  the 

wild 
That  no  man  knows.    Indeed  I  love  thee : 

come, 
Yield  thyself  up  :  my  hopes  and  thine 

are  one  : 


286 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thy- 
self ; 

Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust 
to  me." 


CONCLUSION. 

So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I  give  you  all 
The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it  rose  : 
The  words  are  mostly  mine ;  for  when 

we  ceased 
There  came  a  minute's  pause,  and  Walter 

said, 
"I  wish  she  had  not  yielded ! "  then  to  me, 
"What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically  !  " 
So  pray'd  the  men,  the  women  :  I  gave 

assent : 
Yet  how  to  bind  the  scattered  scheme  of 

seven 
Together  in  one  sheaf  ?  What  style  could 

suit  ? 
The  men  required  that  I  should  give 

throughout 
The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque, 
With  which  we  banter'd  little  Lilia  first : 
The  women  —  and  perhaps  they  felt  their 

power. 
For  something  in  the  ballads  which  they 

sang, 
Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat. 
Had  ever  seem'd  to  wrestle  with  burlesque, 
And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a  solemn 

close  — 
They  hated  banter,  wish'd  for  something 

real, 
A  gallant  fight,  a  noble  princess  —  why 
Not  make  her  true-heroic — true-sublime  ? 
Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the  close  ? 
Which  yet  with  such  a  framework  scarce 

could  be. 
rhen  rose  a  little  feud  betwixt  the  two. 
Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists  : 
And  I,  betwixt  them   both,   to   please 

them  both, 
And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 
I  moved  as  in  a  strange  diagonal, 
And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself  nor 

them. 

But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took  no 

part 
In  our  dispute  :  the  sequel  of  the  tale 
Had  touch'd  her ;  and  she  sat,  she  pluck'd 

the  grass, 
She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking :  last, 

she  fixt 


A  showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and  said, 
"  You  —  tell  us  what  we  are  "  who  might 

have  told, 
For  she  was  cramm'd  with  theories  out 

of  books. 
But  that  there  rose  a  shout :  the  gates 

were  closed 
At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarming 

now, 
To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden  rails. 

So  I  and  some  went  out  to  these  :  we 

climb'd 
The  slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turningsaw 
The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and  half 
Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land  of 

peace  ; 
Gray  halls  alone  among  their  massive 

groves ; 
Trim  hamlets  ;  here  and  there  a  rustic 

tower 
Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths  of 

wheat ; 
The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a  stream  ; 

the  seas ; 
A  red  sail,  or  a  white  ;  and  far  beyond, 
Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  skirts  of 

France. 

"Look  there,  a  garden!"  said  my 

college  friend. 
The  Tory  member's  elder  son  "and  there  ! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps 

her  off. 
And  keeps  our  Britain,  whole  within 

herself, 
A  nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the  ruled  — 
Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a  faith. 
Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves 

have  made. 
Some  patient  force  to  change  them  when 

we  will. 
Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the 

crowd  — 
But  yonder,  whiff !  there  comes  a  sudden 

heat. 
The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his  head, 
The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will  not 

fight. 
The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and  stab, 
A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the 

world 
In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our  own  ; 
Revolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a  schoolboys'  barring  out ; 
Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they  are, 


THE  PEmCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


287 


Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in  them, 
Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise  a  dream 
As  some  of  theirs  —  God  bless  the  narrow 

seas  ! 
I  wish  they  were  a  whole  Atlantic  broad." 

"Have patience,"  I  replied,  "ourselves 

are  full 
Of   social    wrong ;  and  maybe    wildest 

dreams 
Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the  truth  : 
For  me,  the  genial  day,  the  happy  crowd, 
The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a  faith, 
This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a  child 
Yet  in  the  go-cart.     Patience  !     Give  it 

time 
To  learn  its  limbs  :  there  is  a  hand  that 

guides." 

In  such  discourse  we  gain'd  the  gar- 
den rails. 
And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where  he 

stood. 
Before  a  tower  of  crimson  holly-oaks, 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head,  and 

look'd 
No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 
A  great  broad-shoulder'd  genial  English- 
man, 
A  lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A  raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 
A  patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 
A  pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on  grain, 
A  quarter-sessions  chairman,  abler  none  ; 
Fair-hair'd  and  redder  than  a  windy  morn  ; 
Now  shaking  hands  with  him,  now  him, 

of  those 
That  stood  the  nearest  —  now  address'd 

to  speech  — 
Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such 
as  closed 


Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome  for  the 

year 
To  follow  :  a  shout  rose  again,  and  made 
The  long  line  of  the  approaching  rook- 
ery swerve 
From  the  elms,  and  shook  the  branches 

of  the  deer 
From  slope  to  slope  thro'  distant  ferns, 

and  rang 
Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset ;  0,  a  shout 
More  joyful  than  the  city-roar  that  hails 
Premier  or  king  !    Why  should  not  these 

great  Sirs 
Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times  a 

year 
To  let  the  people  breathe  ?  So  thrice  they 

cried, 
I  likewise,  and  in  groups  they  streaiu'd 

away. 

But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey,  and 

sat  on. 
So  much  the  gathering  darkness  charm'd  : 

we  sat 
But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless  revery, 
Perchanceupon  the  future  man  :  the  walls 
Blacken'd  about  us,  bats  wheel' d,  and  owls 

whoop'd, 
And  gradually  the  powers  of  the  night, 
That  range  above  the  region  of  the  wind, 
Deepening  the  courts  of  twilight  broke 

them  up 
Thro'  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the  worlds. 
Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven  of 

Heavens. 

Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly. 
Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of  Sir 

Ralph 
From  those  rich  silks,  and  home  well- 
pleased  we  went. 


288 


IN    MEMORIAM. 


JN    MEMORIAM. 


Strong  Son  of  God,  immoi-tal  Love, 

,  Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
*  By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace. 
Believing  where  we  cannot  prove  ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade  ; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute  ; 

Thou  madest  Death  ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why  ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him  :  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou  : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day  ; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  : 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 

/Lnd  thou,  0  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know  ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A.  beam  in  darkness  :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more. 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 

May  make  one  music  as  before. 

But  vaster.     "We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear  : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear  ; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me  ; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began  ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
ind  not  from  man,  0  Lord,  to  thee. 

Torfrive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 
,.,*"i  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

f  orgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth  ; 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 
A.   H.   H. 

OBIIT  MDCCCXXXIII. 
I. 

I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones. 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  ? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd. 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss  : 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss. 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground. 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  sconi 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"  Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  under-lying  dead. 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head. 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again, 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock  ; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

0  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom. 
Who  chanrest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom  : 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree. 
Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 


0  SORROW,  cruel  fellowship, 

0  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
0  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath, 

vVhat  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip  ? 


'kWi/ 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


289 


"The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "blindly  run ; 

A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky  ; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun  : 

"  And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands — 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands.'' 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind. 
Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good  ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  ? 


To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away  ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark  ; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark. 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say  : 

0  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now. 
That  thou  shouldst  fail  from  thy  desire. 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire, 

"  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ? " 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost. 
Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes  ; 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  cries, 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 


I  SOMETIMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise. 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I  '11  wrap  me  o'er. 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


One  writes,  that  "  Other  friends  remain,' 
That  "  Loss  is  common  to  the  race  "  — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace. 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 


That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rathec  more  : 
Too  common  !     Never  morning  wore 

"f  o  eVening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

0  father,  where'soe'er  thou  be. 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son  ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done. 

Hath  still'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

0  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor,  —  while  thy  head  is  bow'd, 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock -shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell. 

And     something    written,     something 
thought ; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home  ; 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  here  to-day. 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

0  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair  ; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And  thinking  "this  will  please  him 
best," 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose  ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color  burns  ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right ; 

And,  even  when  she  tum'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  Lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'  the  ford. 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

0  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  ? 

To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood. 
And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 


t)AnK  honse,  by  which  onflffinore  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  whertf^y  In-art  wmt  used  to  bi-ut 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  liund. 


290 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more,  — 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  ;  but  far  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 


A  HAPPY  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway  bell, 

And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from  home  ; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 

Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall. 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight : 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet. 
The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street. 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 

Which  once  she  foster'd  up  with  care ; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

0  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleased  a  vanish'd  eye, 

1  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb. 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom, 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 


Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 


Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now. 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 

Mj'  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow' d  race  be  run  ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son. 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


I  HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel ; 

I  hear  the  bell  stnick  in  the  night ; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright ; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell'd  men  from  foreign  lands  ; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands  ; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him  :  we  have  idle  dreams  : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies  :  0  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod. 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  giapes  of  God  ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine, 

Should  toss^  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


Calm  is  the  mom  without  a  sound. 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 
And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  "high  wold, 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  f  arze. 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And    crowded    farms    and    lessening 
towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair  : 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


291 


'Fair  ship,  tliat  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains." 


Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 
And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


Lo,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs 
To  bear  thro'  Heaven  a  tale  of  woe, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 

The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings  ; 

Like  her  I  go  ;  I  cannot  stay  ; 
I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 
A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind, 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large. 

And  reach  the  glow  of  soutliem  skies. 
And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise. 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge. 

And  saying ;  "  Comeshe  thus,  my  friend  ? 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care  ? " 
And  circle  moaning  in  the  air : 

"  la  this  the  end  ?    fg  thb  the  end  ? " 


And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn, 

That  I  have  been  an  hour  away. 


Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals. 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and  feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these  ; 

Which  weep  a  loss  for  ever  new, 
A  void  where  heart  on  heart  reposed  ; 
And,  where  warm  hands  have  prest  and 
closed. 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 

^V^^ich  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice, 
An  awful  thought,  a  life  removed, 
The  human -hearted  man  I  loved, 

A  Spirit,  not  a  breatliing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many  years, 
I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream  ; 


292 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


For  now  so  strange  do  these  things  seem, 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears  ; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wine, 

i\nd  glance  about  the  approaching  sails. 
As  tho'  they  brought  but  merchants' 
bales, 

And  not  the  burden  that  they  bring. 


If  one  should  bring  me  this  report. 
That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land  to- 
day. 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port ; 

And  standing,  muflBed  round  with  woe. 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come  stepping  lightly  down  the  plank. 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know  ; 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I  held  as  half-divine  ; 
Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine. 

And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home  ; 

*And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain. 
And  how  my  life  had  droop'd  of  late. 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 
And  marvel  what  possess'd  my  brain  ; 

And  I  perceived  no  touch  of  change. 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 


To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 
And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day  : 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl'd  away. 

The  rooks  arfe  blown  about  the  skies  ; 

The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curl'd, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea  ; 
And  wildly  dash'd  on  tower  and  tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world  : 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 
That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  eould  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches  loud  ; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so, 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 


That  rises  upward  always  higher, 
And  onward  drags  a  laboring  breast. 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  lire. 


"What  words  are  these  have  fall'n  from  me  ? 
Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast. 

Or  sorrow  such  a  changeling  be  ? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 

The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or  storm  ; 
But  knows  no  more  of  transient  form 

In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 

That  holds  the  shadow  of  a  lark 
Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a  heaven  ? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given, 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelf, 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink  ? 
Andstunn'dme  fronimy  poweito  think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself ; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 
Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new. 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true. 

And  mingles  aU  without  a  plan  ? 


Thou  comest,  much  wept  for :  such  a 
breeze 
Compell'd  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  spirit  saw  thee  move 

Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky. 
Week  after  week  :  the  days  go  by  : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I  love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  mayst  roam, 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light. 
Is  on  the  watei-s  day  and  night. 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 

Mid-ocean,  spare  thee,  sacred  bark  ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee  ; 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


293 


xvrii. 

'T 18  well ;  't  is  something  ;  we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'T  is  little  ;  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bearthe  head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev'n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart. 
Would  breathing  thro'  his  lips  impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me  ; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain. 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind. 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 


The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken'd  heart  that  beat  no  more  ; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills  ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along. 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all. 
When  fill'd  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls  ; 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls. 

And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 


The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said. 
That  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows, 
Are  but  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead  ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is. 

And  weep  the  fulness  from  the  mind  : 
"  It  will  be  hard,"  they  say,  "to  find 

Another  service  such  as  this." 


My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these. 
That  out  of  words  a  comfort  win  ; 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within. 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze  ; 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the  breath, 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit ; 

But  open  converse  is  there  none, 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

**  How  good !  how  kind !  and  he  is  gone." 


I  SING  to  him  that  rests  below. 
And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  gravte. 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then. 
And  sometimes  harshly  will  he  speak  ; 
"This  fellow  would  make  wetness 
weak. 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men." 

Another  answers,  "Let  him  be, 
He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain. 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  pi-aise  that  comes  to  constancy." 

A  third  is  wroth,  "  Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 
When  more  and  more  the  people  throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  ? 

"A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 
When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon  ? " 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thin?  : 
Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust : 
I  do  but  sing  because  I  must. 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing : 

And  one  is  glad  ;  her  note  is  gay. 
For  now  her  little  ones  have  mnged  ; 
And  one  is  sad  ;  her  note  is  cliaiigcd. 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away. 


The  path  by  whicli  wc  twain  did  go, 
Wbichled  by  tracts  that  plcftwduswcll. 
Thro'  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fi-ll, 

From  flower  to  flower,  fruui  snow  to  snow  : 


2^ 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


And  we  witTi  singing  clieer'd  the  way, 
And,  crown'd  with  all  the  season  lent, 
From  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May  : 

But  where  the  path  we  walk'd  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope. 
As  we  descended  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  fear'd  of  man  ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship. 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold, 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold. 

And  dull'd  the  murmur  on  thy  lip, 

And  bore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho'  I  walk  in  haste. 
And  think  that  somewhere  in  the  waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 


Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut. 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits. 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits. 

The  Shadow  cloak' d  from  head  to  foot, 

"Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame, 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came. 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads  ; 

And  crying.  How  changed  from  where 
it  ran 

Thro'  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was  dumb ; 

But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 
The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan  : 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with 
Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech ; 

And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 
And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring. 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  ; 

And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang. 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady. 


And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I  say  ? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 

Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 


If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met. 
This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 

Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes  former  gladness  loom  so  great  ? 
The  lowness  of  the  present  state. 

That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief  ? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 

A  glory  from  its  being  far  ; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 


I  KNOW  that  this  was  Life,  —  the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared  ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  ; 
I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear. 

Because  it  needed  help  of  Love  : 

Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb. 

When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in 

twain 
The  lading  of  a  single  pain, 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 

xxvr. 

Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way  ; 
I  with  it ;  for  I  long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  see 
Within  the  green  the  moulder'd  tree, 

And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built  — 

0,  if  indeed  that  ej^e  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 
In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be. 

Then  might  I  find,  ere  yet  the  mom 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas. 
That  Shadow  waiting  with  the  keys. 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

XXVII. 

I  ENVY  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage. 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods  : 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


295 


I  envy  not  the  Ijeast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Uiifetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime. 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth  ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most ; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVIII. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 
The  moon  is  hid  ;  the  night  is  still ; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 

Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round. 
From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor. 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound  : 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease. 
Peace  and  goodwill,  goodwill  and  peace. 

Peace  and  goodwill,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake. 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again  : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 
For  they  controU'd  me  when  a  boy  ; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  with  joy, 

The  merry  merry  bells  of  Yule. 


With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace, 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve  ; 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  shower'd  largess  of  delight, 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest. 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly  boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font. 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and 
Wont, 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house  ; 


Old  sisters  of  a  day  gone  by. 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new ; 
Why  should  they  miss  their  yearly  due 

Before  their  time  ?    They  too  will  die. 


With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth ; 
A  rainy  cloud  possess'd  the  earth. 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gamboU'd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused  :  the  winds  were  in  the  beech : 
We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter  land  ; 
And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang  ; 
We  sung,  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year  :  impetuously  we  sang  : 

We  ceased  :  a  gentler  feeling  crept 
Upon  us  :  surely  rest  is  meet : 
"They  rest,"  we  said,  "their  sleep  is 
sweet," 

And  silence  foUow'd,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range  ; 
Once  more  we  sang :  "They  do  not  die 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 

Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change  ; 

"Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gather'd  power,  yet  the  same, 
Pierces  the  keen  serapliic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil." 

Rise,  happy  mom,  rise,  holy  mom, 
Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night : 
O  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 

The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  Dom. 


When  Lazarus  left  his  chamel-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  retum'd. 
Was  tliis  demanded  —  if  he  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  gi-ave  1 

"Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four 
days  ? " 
There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 


296 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


From  every  house  the  neighbors  met, 
ThestreetswerefiU'd  with  joyful  sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remaineth  uni-eveal'd  ; 

He  told  it  not ;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer. 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits. 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face. 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears. 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete. 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

"With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful 
prayers. 

Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 

What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure. 
Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 

XXXIII. 

0  THOTT  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst  seem  to  have  reach'd  a  purer  air. 
Whose  faith  hath  centre  everywhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  prays. 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views  ; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good  : 
0,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine  ! 

See  thou,  that  coantest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within, 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin. 

And  ev'n  for  want  of  such  a  type. 

XXXIV. 

Mt  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this. 
That  life  shall  live  for  evermore, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core. 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is  ; 


This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame, 
Fantastic  beauty  ;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  w^ere  God  to  such  as  I  ? 
'T  were  hardly  worth  my  while  to  choose 
Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 

A  little  patience  ere  I  die  ; 

'T  were  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace. 
Like  birds  thechaimingserpentdraws, 
To  drop  head-foremost  in  the  jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness  and  to  cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 
Shouldmurmurfrom  the  narrowhouse, 
"  The  cheeks  drop  in  ;  the  body  bows  ; 

Man  dies  :  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust "  : 

Might  I  not  say,  "  Yet  even  here. 
But  for  one  hour,  0  Love,  I  strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive  "  ? 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  meanings  of  the  homeless  sea. 
The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or  slow 
Draw  down  uEonian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be  ; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigh, 
"  The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and 
more. 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die." 

0  me,  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case  ?     If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut. 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, 
Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 
Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush'd  the 
grape. 

And  bask'd  and  batten'd  in  the  woods. 

XXXVI. 

Tho'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join. 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame. 
We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin  ; 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall  fail» 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tale 

Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


297 


And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought ; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave. 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wave 

In  roarings  round  the  eoi-al  reef. 


Urania  speaks  with  darken'd  brow  : 
"Thou  pratest  here  where  thou  art 

least ; 
This  faith  has  many  a  purer  priest, 

And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

"  Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill, 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet. 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  of  the  hill." 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 
A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek  : 
"  I  am  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries  ; 

"  For  I  am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 
And  owning  but  a  little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart. 

And  render  human  love  his  dues  ; 

"  But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 

To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said,) 

"  I  murmur' d,  as  I  came  along. 
Of  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  reveal'd  ; 
And  loiter'd  in  the  master's  field. 

And  darken'd  sanctities  with  song." 


With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 
Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies. 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives. 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring, 
But  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

If  any  care  for  what  is  here 
Survive  in  spirits  render'd  free. 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sing  of  thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 


XXXIX. 

Old  warder  of  these  buried  bones, 
And  answering  now  my  random  stroke 
With  fruitful  cloud  and  living  smoke, 

Dark  yew,  that  graspest  at  the  stones 

And  dippest  toward  the  dreamless  head. 
To  thee  too  comes  the  golden  hour 
When  flower  is  feeling  after  flower  ; 

But  Sorrow  fixt  upon  the  dead. 

And  darkening  the  dark  graves  of  men. 
What  whisper'd  from  her  lying  lips  ? 
Thy  gloom  is  kindled  at  the  tips, 

And  passes  into  gloom  again. 


Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower  ! 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth  rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home. 
And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes  ; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  more, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love  ; 

Her  oflSce  there  to  rear,  to  teach. 
Becoming  as  is  meet  and  fit 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each  ; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  offices  as  suit 

The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  diff'erenre  I  discern  ! 
How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the  bnde. 

How  often  she  herself  return. 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 
Andbringherbabe,  andinakf'herhoast. 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  nuwt. 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old  : 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands. 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low  ; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know, 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 


298 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XLI. 

Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher  ; 
As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar-fire, 

As  flies  the  lighter  thro'  the  gross. 

But  thou  art  tum'd  to  something  strange, 
And  I  have  lost  the  links  that  bound 
Tliy  changes  ;  here  upon  the  ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly !  yet  that  this  could  be,  — 
That  I  could  wing  my  will  with  might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  light, 

Aiud  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee : 

For  tho'  my  nature  rarely  yields 

To  that  vague  fear  implied  in  death; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 

The  bowlings  from  forgotten  fields ; 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 

An  inner  trouble  I  behold, 

A  spectral  doubt  which  makes  me  cold, 
That  1  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho'  following  with  an  xipward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to  thee. 
Thro'  all  the  secular  to-be. 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 


I  VEX  my  heart  with  fancies  dim  : 
He  still  outstript  me  in  the  race ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 

That  made  me  dream  I  rank'd  with  him. 

And  so  may  Place  retain  lis  still, 
And  he  the  much -beloved  again, 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps. 
When  one  that  loves  but  knows  not, 
reaps 

A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows  ? 

XLIII. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one. 
And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 
Thro'  all  its  intervital  gloom 

In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 
Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 
And  silent  traces  of  the  past 

Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower  : 


So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man  ; 
So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 
In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 

The  total  world  since  life  began ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Eewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 


How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead? 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and  more ; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out    at  times   (he  knows  not 
whence) 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint ; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs) 
May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  thing* 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 
0  turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  doubt; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 


The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky. 
What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast. 

Has  never  thought  that  "this  is  I" : 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much, 

And  learns  the  use  of  "I,"  and  "me," 
And  finds  "  1  am  not  what  I  see. 

And  other  than  the  things  I  touch." 

So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 

From  whence  clear  memory  may  begin, 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath. 
Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due. 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 


We  ranging  down  this  lower  track. 
The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and  flower. 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour. 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


299 


So  be  it :  there  no  shade  can  last 
In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb, 
But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall 
bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past ; 

A  lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal'd ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase  ; 

Days  order'd  in  a  wealthy  peace, 
And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

0  Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 
A  bounded  field,  nor  stretching  far  ; 
Look  also.  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 


That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole. 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Kemerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside  ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet : 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 
Enjoying  each  the  other's  good  : 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ?     He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height. 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away. 
Some  landinw-place,  to  clasp  and  say, 

**  Farewell !    We  lose  ourselves  in  light." 


If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  bom, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  pro- 
posed. 

Then  these  were  such  as  men  might  scorn  : 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove  ; 
She  takes,  when  harsher  moods  remit, 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flit, 

And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love  : 

And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with  words, 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law, 
And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords  : 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay. 
But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 

Their  winga  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 


From  art,  from  nature,  from  the  schools, 
Let  random  influences  glance. 
Like  light  in  many  a  shiver'd  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools  : 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp. 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe. 
The  slightest  air  of  song  shall  breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way. 
But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that 

make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break. 

The  tender-pencil'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears 
Ay  me  !  the  sorrow  deepens  down. 
Whose  muffled  motions  blindly  drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 


Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low. 
When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the  nerves 
prick 
And  tingle  ;  and  the  heart  is  sick. 
And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 
Is  rack'd  with  pangs  that  conn  uertnist; 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattermg  dust. 

And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry. 
And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring. 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and  sing, 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away, 
To  |)oint  the  term  of  human  strife. 
Ana  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 

U. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  sicle  T 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  wouM  hide  ? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  hhume 

And  I  be  lesscn'd  in  his  love  ? 

I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untnie  : 
Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  t 


300 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


There   must   Tie   wisdom  with  great 
Death  : 
The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro*. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall : 
Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours. 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


I  CANNOT  love  thee  as  I  ought, 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved  ; 
My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

"  Yet  blame  not  thou  thy  plaintive  song," 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied  ; 
' '  Thou  canst  not  move  nie  from  thy  side, 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

"What  keeps  a  spirit  wholly  true 
To  that  ideal  which  he  bears  ? 
What  record  ?  not  the  sinless  years 

That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue  : 

"So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl, 
That  life  is  dash'd  with  flecks  of  sin. 
Abide  :  thy  wealth  is  gather'd  in. 

When  Time  hath  sunder'd  shell  from 
pearl." 


How  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man,  among  his  boys. 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish  noise, 

Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green  : 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give. 

That  had  the  wild  oat  not  been  sown. 
The  soil,  left  barren,  scarce  had  grown 

The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  live  ? 

0,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 
For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth. 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  ? 

Hold  thou  the  good  :  define  it  well : 

For  fear  divine  Philosophy 

Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 
Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 


0  YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill. 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will. 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood  ; 


That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy' d, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivel'd  in  a  fruitless  fire. 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything  ; 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  —  far  off —  at  last,  to  all. 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream  :  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife. 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life  ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds. 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope. 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


"  So  careful  of  the  type  ? "  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "  A  thousand  types  are  goue : 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"  Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me  : 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death  : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath  : 

1  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


301 


Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
AVho  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law  — 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravine,  shriek'd  against  his  creed  — 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills. 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  ? 

No  more  ?    A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime. 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

0  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

0  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless  ! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


Peace  ;  come  away  :  the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song  : 
Peace  ;  come  away  :  we  do  hira  wrong 

To  sing  so  wildly  :  let  us  go. 

Come  ;  let  us  go  :  your  cheeks  are  pale  ; 
But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind  : 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined  ; 

But  I  shall  pass  ;  my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

I  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er. 
Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 
And  "Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 

"Adieu,  adieu"  for  evermore. 

LVIII. 

In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell : 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls. 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 

In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell ; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day. 
Half-conscious  of  their  dying  clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall 
cease. 


The  high  Muse  answer'd  :    "  Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear? 

Abide  a  little  longer  here. 
And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 


0  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me. 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a  wife, 
My  bosom-friend  and  half  of  life ; 

As  I  confess  it  needs  must  be ; 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood. 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a  bride, 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside. 

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  goodl 

My  centred  passion  cannot  move, 
Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day ; 
But  I  '11  have  leave  at  times  to  play 

As  with  the  creature  of  my  love ; 

And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine. 
With  so  much  hope  for  years  to  come. 
That,  liowsoe'er  I  know  thee,  some 

Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were  thine. 


He  past ;  a  soul  of  nobler  tone : 
My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet, 
Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart  is  set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere. 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot. 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn ; 
She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days, 
Moving  about  the  household  ways. 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was  bom. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go. 
And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by  : 
At  night  she  weeps,  "  How  vain  nm  1 1 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low  if " 


If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime, 
Tliy  ransom'd  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time  ; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eves  lielow, 
How  dimly  character'd  and  slight. 


302 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


How  dwarfd  a  growth  of  cold  and  night, 
How  blanch'd  with  darkness  must  I  grow ! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore, 
Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a  man  ; 
I  loved  thee,  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 

The  soul  of  Shakespeare  love  thee  more. 


Tho'  if  an  eye  that's  downward  cast 
Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench  or 

fail. 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale. 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past ; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined, 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy. 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind ; 

And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 
Hi8  other  passion  wholly  dies. 
Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 

Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 

LXIII. 

Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven. 
And  love  in  which  my  hound  has  part. 
Can- hang  no  weight  upon  my  heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven ; 

And  I  am  so  much  more  than  these. 
As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy 

And  I  would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I  weep. 
As,  unto  vaster  motions  bound. 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 


Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been. 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man. 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 

And  on  a  simple  village  green ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar. 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance. 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance. 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys. 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees. 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne  ; 


And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope. 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire  ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream. 
When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings. 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate  ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands. 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands  ; 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ?" 


Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt ; 

I  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  "  Love  's  too  precious  to  be  lost, 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt." 

And  in  that  solace  can  I  sing. 

Till  out  of  painful  phases  Avrought 
There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought. 

Self-balanced  on  a  lightsome  wing : 

Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends. 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 
A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee 

And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 


YoTT  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased  ; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay. 

Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 

The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crost. 
Which  makes  a  desert  in  the  mind. 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind. 

And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost ; 

Whose  feet  are  guided  thro'  the  land. 
Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is  free, 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his  knee. 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand  : 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his  chair 
For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky  ; 
His  inner  day  can  never  die, 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


303 


Lxvir. 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest. 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls  : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears. 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away  ; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies  ; 

And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 
I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 

And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church  like  a  ghost 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

LXVIII. 

When  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head, 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  times  my 

breath  ; 
Sleep,    Death's  twin-brother,    knows 
not  Death, 
Nor  can  I  di'eam  of  thee  i\s  dead  : 

I  walk  as  ere  I  walk'd  forlorn, 
When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with  dew, 
And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 

Reveillee  to  the  breaking  mom. 

But  what  is  this  ?    I  turn  about, 
I  find  a  trouble  in  thine  eye, 
Which  makes  me  sad  I  know  not  why, 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt  : 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 
I  wake,  and  I  discern  the  truth  ; 
It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 

That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 

LXIX. 

I  dream'd  there  would  be  Spring  no  more, 
That  Nature's  ancient  power  was  lost  : 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke 
aud  frost, 

They  chatter'd  trifles  at  the  door  : 

I  wander'd  from  tlie  noisy  town, 

I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs  : 
1  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I  wore  them  liku  a  civic  crown  : 

I  met  with  scofls,  I  met  with  scorns 
From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary  hairs  ; 


They  call'd  me  in  the  public  squares 
The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns  : 

They  call'd  me  fool,  they  call'd  me  qhild  : 
I  found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 
The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was  bright ; 

He  look'd  upon  my  crown  and  smiled  : 

He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand, 
That  seem'd  to  touch  it  into  leaf  : 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief, 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 


I  CANNOT  see  the  features  right, 
When  on  the  gloom  1  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know  ;  the  hues  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hoUow  masks  of  night ; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons  wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points,  and  palled  shapes 

In  shaddwy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning 
doors, 

And  shoals  of  pucker'd  faces  drive  ; 

Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive. 
And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores  ; 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 
I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll, 
And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 

Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 


Sleep,  kinsman  tliou  to  death  and  trance 
And  madness,  tliou  hast  forged  at  last 
A  night-long  Present  of  the  Past 

In  which  we  went  thro'  summer  France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul  ? 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong, 
Drugdowu  the  blindfold  senseuf  wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole  ; 

While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk'd 
Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of  change. 
The  days   that    grow  to    something 
strange, 

In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk'd 

Beside  the  river's  wofxlfd  reach, 

Thu  fortrtfss,  and  the  mountain  riilge. 
The  cataract  flashing  fnmi  tiie  bridge, 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 


304 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


'  I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs." 


EiSEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again. 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar  white, 

And  lash  with  storm  the  streaming  pane  ? 

Day,  when  my  crown'd  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom. 
Which  sicken'd  every  living  bloom, 
.^nd  blurr'd  the  splendor  of  the  sun  ; 

"Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 
With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the  rose 
Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower ; 

Who  mightst  have  heaved  a  windless  flame 
Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering,  play'd 


A  checker- work  of  beam  and  shade 
Along  the  hills,  yet  look'd  the  same. 

As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now ; 
Day,   mark'd  as  with  some  hideous 

crime. 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down  thro' 
time, 
And  cancell'd  nature's  best :  but  thou, 

Lift  as  thou  mayst  thy  burden'd  brows 
Thro'  clouds  that  drench  the  morning 

star. 
And  whirl  the  ungamer'd  sheaf  afar, 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs, 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 
Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous  day ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


305 


Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray, 
And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the  ground. 


So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 
How  know  I  what  had  need  of  thee. 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true  ? 

The  fame  is  quench'd  that  I  foresaw. 
The  head  hath  miss'd  an  earthly  wreath : 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death  ; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass  ;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds  : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age  ?    It  rests  with  God. 

0  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame. 
Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults, 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 

LXXIV. 

As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face, 
To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before. 

Comes  out  —  to  some  one  of  his  race  : 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 
I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below. 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid. 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  haa  made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


I  LEAVE  thy  praises  unexpress'd 
In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief. 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 

I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd  ; 

What  practice  howsoe'er  expert 
In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things. 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  sings. 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert  ? 

I  care  not  in  these  fading  days 
To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long, 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  of  song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 


Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green. 
And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun. 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame  ; 
But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 
Whate'er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 

Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 


Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  a  moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of  space 

Are  sharpen'd  to  a  needle's  end  ; 

Take  wings  of  foresight ;  lighten  thro' 
The  secular  abyss  to  come. 
And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  of  a  yew  ; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last. 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy 
bovvers 

With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain  ; 

And  what  are  they  when  these  remain 
The  ruin'd  shells  of  hollow  towers  ? 


What  hope  is  here  for  modem  rhyme 
To  him,  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  tliat  lie 

Foreshorteu'd  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 

May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box. 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks  ; 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find. 
And.  pa.ssing,  turn  the  page  that  tells 
A  grief,  then  changed  to  something  else, 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  ?  My  darken'd  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same  ; 
To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fame, 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

LXXVIII. 
AoAiN  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth ; 

Tlie  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 
And  calmly  fell  our  Chiistraa»-eve  : 


306 


IN   MEMOEIAM. 


The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 

Af.ain  our  ancient  games  had  place. 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace. 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodmau-blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress  ? 
No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 
0  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 

0  grief,  can  grief  be  clianged  to  less  ? 

0  last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No —  mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame. 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 


"  MoEE  than  my  brothers  are  to  me  "  — 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! 
I  know  thee  of  what  force  thou  art 

To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind. 
As  moulded  like  in  nature's  mint ; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl'd 
Thro'  all  his  eddying  coves  ;  the  same 
All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight  came 

In  whispei-s  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  profTer'd  vows. 
One  lesson  from  one  book  we  leam'd. 
Ere  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  tum'd 

To  black  and  browii  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 
But  he  was  rich  where  I  was  poor, 
And  he  supplied  my  want  the  more 

As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 


If  any  vague  desire  should  rise. 
That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his  side. 

And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes  ; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 

The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had  wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought. 

But  stay'd  in  peaee  witli  God  and  man. 


I  make  a  picture  in  the  brain  ; 

I  hear  tne  sentence  that  he  speaks  ; 

He  bears  the  burden  of  the  weeks  ; 
But  turns  his  burden  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free  ; 

And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and  save, 
Unused  example  Irom  the  giave 

Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 

Lxxxr. 
Could  I  have  said  while  he  was  here, 

"  My  love  shall  now  no  further  range  ; 

There  cannot  come  a  mellower  change. 
For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear." 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store  : 
What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint  ? 
This  haunting  whisper  makes  me  faint, 

' '  More  years  had  made  me  love  thee  more. ' ' 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 
"My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain. 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  gi-ain, 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat." 


I  WAGE  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and  face  ; 
No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 

May  breed  with  him,  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on. 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks  ; 

And  these  are  but  the  shatter'd  stalks, 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 

I  know  transplanted  human  worth 
Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 

The  WTath  that  gamers  in  my  heart ; 
He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 


Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
0  sweet  new-year  delaying  long  ; 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong  ; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

Wliat  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  pro])er  place  ? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days. 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


307 


Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud. 

And  Hood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXIV. 

When  I  contemplate  all  alone 

The  life  that  had  been  thine  below. 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow 

To  which  thy  crescent  would  have  grown ; 

1  see  thee  sitting  crown'd  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 

In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and  kiss. 
On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood  ; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine  ; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on. 
When  thou  shouldst  link  thy  life  with 
one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  "  Uncle  "  on  my  knee  ; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange  flower. 

Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 
To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them  mine. 
1  see  their  unborn  faces  shine 

Beside  the.  never-lighted  fire. 

I  see  myself  an  honor'd  guest. 
Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk, 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest  ; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 

Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a  mom  as  fair  ; 
And  all  the  train  of  Iwunteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  growiufj  powers 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair  ; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe. 
Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought. 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 

Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  oflfthe  globe  ; 


What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee. 
As  link'd  with  thine  in  love  and  fate, 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  dolorous  sti-ait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee. 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal. 
And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand, 

And  take  us  as  a  single  soul. 

What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant  ? 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content. 

LXXXV. 

This  tnith  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all  — 

0  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed. 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief. 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead  ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow,  or  sustain'd  ; 
And  whetlier  love  for  him  have  drain'd 

My  capabilities  of  love  ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast, 
Thio'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest. 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept. 
Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls, 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept. 

The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate. 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there  ; 

And  led  him  thro'  the  blissful  climes, 
And  show'd  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remain'd,  whose  hopes  were  dim. 
Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  liltlo 

worth, 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth, 
Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of 
him. 


308 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


0  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 
O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 

0  solemn  ghost,  0  crowned  soul ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  tho'  left  alone. 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine  ; 

A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  express 
All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilizing  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind. 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 
For  other  friends  that  once  I  met ; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

1  woo  your  love  :  I  count  it  crime 

To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 
I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A  friendship  as  had  master' d  Time  ; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  : 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods. 
And  Spring  that  swells   the   narrow 

brooks. 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 

rhat  gather  in  the  waning  woods. 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

4nd  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave  : 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 
A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak  : 


"  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 
A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

"  I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore  ; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach  ; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain         ' 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 
How  is  it  ?     Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  ?  " 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall  ; 

"  'T  is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this  ; 

I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss. 
And  that  serene  result  of  all." 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead  ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say  ; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  i)lay. 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end. 

That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall  prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  crave  your  pardon,  0  my  friend  ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  I  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  ? 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place. 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more. 

My  heart,  tho'  widow' d,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone. 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast. 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring. 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year. 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 


Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 
That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


309 


The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  the  dewy-tassell'd  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
m      The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
f-^    Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and 
''  Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far. 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "  Peace." 


1  PAST  beside  the  revei'end  walls 
In  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown  ; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls  ; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The  storm  their  high -built  organs  make, 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blazon'd  on  the  panes  ; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout. 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows  ;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 

Tlie  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same  ;  and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door  : 
I  linger'd  ;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 

tliat  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor  ; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art. 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

<i.nd  all  the  framework  of  the  land  ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair. 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string  ; 
And  one  would  y)ierce  an  outer  ring. 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there  ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he, 
Would  cleave  the  mark.  A  willing  ear 
We  lent  him.  Who,  but  hung  to  hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowiiig  free 


From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law. 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face. 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise  ; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVIII. 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 
Rings  Eden  thro'  the  budded  quicks, 

0  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 
0  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate  :  fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy  : 

And  I  —  my  harp  would  prelude  woe  — 

1  cannot  all  command  the  strings  ; 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 


Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and  bright ; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and 
height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore  ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down. 
My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town  : 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw  ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports  ; 

They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  brawling 
courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

0  joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 
Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark. 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat  : 

0  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares. 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew, 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew, 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears  I 

0  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  dr&vm 
About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  Tuscan  |>oets  on  the  lawn  : 


310 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 
Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and  flung 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon  : 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray, 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods  ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to  theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate, 
Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the  state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream  ; 

But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town, 
He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  "  ground  in  yonder  social  mill 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 

"And  merge  "  he  said  "  in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man." 
We  talk'd  :  the  stream  beneath  us  ran, 

The  wine-flask  lying  couch'd  in  moss, 

Or  cool'd  within  the  glooming  wave  ; 
And  last,  returning  from  afar. 
Before  the  crimson-circled  star 

Had  fall'n  into  her  father's  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 
We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 


He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 
Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where  nighest  heaven,  who  first  could 
fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind  ; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their  life, 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise  : 

'T  was  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with  wine, 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear, 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them  here, 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine  ; 

But  if  they  came  who  past  away. 
Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands  ; 
The  hard  heir  strides  about  their  lands. 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 


Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of  these. 
Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would  make 
Confusion  worse  than  death,  and  shake 

The  pillai-s  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me  : 
Whatever    change    the    years    havi 
wrought,  ' 

I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought     "^ 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 


When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 
And  rajely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush ; 
Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March ; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers ; 
The  hope  of  unaccomplish'd  years 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

Whensummer'shourly-mellowingchange 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet. 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat. 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange ; 

Come  :  not  in  watches  of  the  night. 
But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth  warm, 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form, 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 


If  any  vision  should  reveal 
Tliy  likeness,  1  might  count  it  vain 
As  but  the  canker  of  the  bi-ain ; 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  made  ajipeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind, 
1  might  but  say,  I  hear  a  wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  coming  year ; 
And  tho'  the  months,  revolving  near. 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning  true, 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies. 
But  spiritual  presentiments, 
And  such  refraction  of  events 

As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 

XCIII. 

I  8HALL  not  see  thee.     Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


311 


That  stays  him  from  the  native  land, 
Where  first  he  walk'd  when  claspt  in 
clay? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 
But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
i      Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb ; 
''  Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

0,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
0,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold-complicated  change. 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter ;  hear 
The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to  name ; 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 


How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head. 
With  what  divine  affections  bold 
Should   be   the  man  whose   thought 
would  hold 

An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 
The  spirits  from  their  golden  day. 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 
Imaginations  calm  and  fair. 
The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air. 

The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest : 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din. 
And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


By  night  we  linger'd  on  the  lawn, 
For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry ; 
And  genial  warmth  ;  and  o'er  the  sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn  ; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  bum 
Unwavering :  not  a  cricket  cliirr'd : 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard. 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn  : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies. 
And  wheel'd  or  lit  the  filmy  shap<'S 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes ; 


While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that  peaVd 
From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd 

at  ease. 
The  white  kine  glimmer' d,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 
Withdrew  themselves    from  me  and 

night. 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  my  heart ;  I  read 
Of  that  glad  year  which  once  had  been. 
In  those  fall'n  leaves  which  kept  their 
green. 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 
The  silent-speaking  words,  and  strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth ;  and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 
On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward  back. 
And  keen  thro'  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line. 
The  dead  man  toucli'd  me  from  the  past. 
And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

His  living  soul  was  flash' d  on  mine, 

And  mine  in  his  was  wound,  and  whirl'd 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought. 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and  caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

iEonian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps   of  Time — the  shocks  of 

Chance  — 
The  blows  of  Death.     At  length  my 
trance 
Was  cancell'd,  stricken  thro'  with  doubt. 

Vague  words  !  but  ah,  how  hard  to  frame 
I  n  matter-moulded  forms  of  siHjech, 
Or  ev'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became  : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal'd^ 
The  knolls  once  more  where,  couch'd  at 

ease. 
The  white  kineglimmer'd,  and  thf  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field  : 

And  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 


312 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore. 
And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 

Kock'd   the   full  -  foliaged   elms,   and 

swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said 

"The  dawn,  the  dawn,"  and  died  away  ; 
And  East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and 
death, 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 

xcvi. 
You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn. 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue 

eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 
You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  fii-st. 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true  : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He    fought    his    doubts    and    gather'd 
strength, 
Hewould  notmake  his  judgment  blind. 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  them  :  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own  ; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night. 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the 
light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old. 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud, 

XCVII. 

Mt  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees  ; 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crown'd  ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life  — 

I  look'd  on  these  and  thought  of  thee 


In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 
And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 

These  two  —  they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye, 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune, 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away  ;  1 

The  days  she  never  can  forget  '*' 

Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star. 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far. 

He  looks  so  cold  :  she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 
A  wither'd  violet  is  her  bliss  : 
She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is  ; 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows  ; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house. 

And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move, 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

"  I  cannot  understand  :  I  love." 

XCVI  1 1. 

You  leave  us  :  you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  I  sail'd  below, 
When  1  was  there  with  him  ;  and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath, 
That  City.     All  her  splendor  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 

Enwind  her  isles,  unmark'd  of  me  :    • 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

Vienna  ;  rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness.  Evil  haunts 

The  birth,  the  bridal ;  friend  from  friend 
Is  oftener  parted,  fathei-s  bend 

Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


313 


Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 
By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sadness  flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings  : 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 
With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves  ;  nor  more  content. 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd. 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamps,  and  loud 

With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and  tent, 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And   wheels  the   circled   dance,  and 
breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 

xcix. 

RisEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds, 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds. 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  flower  of  men  ; 

Who  tremblest  thro'  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoU'n  brook  that  bubbles  fast 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past, 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead  ; 

Who  murmurest  in  the  foliaged  eaves 
A  song  that  slights  the  coming  care, 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves  ; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth. 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth. 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

0,  wheresoever  those  may  be, 
Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls  ; 

They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  with  me. 


I  CMMB  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
1  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend  ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 
Or  low  morass  and  whispi'iing  reed. 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead. 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold  ; 


Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill. 
Nor  quarry  trench'd  along  the  hill. 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw  ; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock  ; 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
Toleftand  right  thro'  meadowy  curves, 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock  ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day  ; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 


Unwatch'  d,  thegarden  bough  shall  sway, 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down. 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather  brown. 

This  maple  bum  itself  away  ; 

Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed, 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar. 
The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star  ; 

Uncared  for,  git'd  the  windy  grove, 
And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake ; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow. 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child  ; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades  ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


Wk  leave  the  well-beloved  place 
Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky  ; 
The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest  cry, 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home. 
As  down  the  ganb-n-walks  I  move. 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  njasterdoni. 


314 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


One  whispers,  here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung. 

The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have  stray'd  in  after  hours 
With  thy  lost  friend  among  the  bowers, 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 
And  each  j)refers  his  separate  claim, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game. 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  turn  to  go  :  my  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  iields  and  farms  ; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 


On  that  last  night  before  we  went 
From  out  the  doors  where  I  was  bred, 
I  dream'd  a  vision  of  the  dead. 

Which  left  my  after-mom  content. 

Methought  I  dwelt  within  a  hall, 
And  maidens  with  me  :  distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 
They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.     In  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veil'd,  to  which  they  sang  ; 

And  which,  tho'  veil'd,  was  known  to  me. 
The  shape  of  him  I  loved,  and  love 
For  ever  :  then  flew  in  a  dove 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea  : 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go 
They  wept  and  wail'd,  but  led  the  way 
To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 

At  anchor  in  the  flood  below  ; 

And  on  by  many  a  level  mead. 

And  shadowing  bluff"  that  made  the 

banks. 
We  glided  winding  xander  ranks 

Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed  ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore. 
And  roU'd  the  floods  in  grander  space, 
The  maidensgather'dstrengtli  audgrace 

And  presence,  lordlier  than  before  ; 


And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch'd  them,   wax'd  in    every 
limb  ; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pulses  of  a  Titan's  heart ; 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war. 
And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race,  which  is  to  be, 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a  star  ; 

Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 
Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 

A  great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck. 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.     Up  the  side  I  went, 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck  : 

Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail'd  their  lot  ;  I  did  them  wrong  : 
' '  We  served  thee  here, "  they  said,  ' '  so 
long. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  ? " 

So  rapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 
An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  "  Enter  likewise  ye 

And  go  with  us  "  :  they  enter'd  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  miisic  out  of  sheet  and  shroud. 
We  steer'd  her  toward  a  crimson  cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 


The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ ; 

The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 

A  single  church  below  the  hill 
Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below. 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  munnur  in  the  breast. 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound. 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays. 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 


To-night,  ungather'd,  let  us  leave 
This  laurel,  let  this  holly  stand  : 
We  live  within  the  stranger's  land. 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas  eve. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


315 


Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 
And  silent  under  other  snows  : 
There  in  due  time  the  woodbine  blows, 

The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 
The  genial  hour  with  mask  and  mime  ; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  of 
time, 

Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 
By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  1  loved, 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 
Nor  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm  ; 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient  form 

Thro'  which  the  spirit  breathes  no  more  ? 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast ; 

Nor  harpbetouch'd,  norflute  be  blown ; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  listens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the  seed  ; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 


Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky. 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  ont  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor. 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  striH," ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  .sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
Ringout,ringout  my  mouniful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 


Ring  out  false  jtride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease  ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


It  is  the  day  when  he  was  bom, 
A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 

Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.     Fiercely  flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and  clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 
To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 
That  breaks  the  coast.     But  fetch  Ihe 
wine. 

Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass  ; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie. 
To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat  ; 
Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 

Of  all  things  ev'n  as  he  were  by ; 

We  keep  the  day.     With  feetal  cheer, 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him,  whate'er  he  Ijc, 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 

cviir. 

I  WILL  not  shut  me  from  my  kind. 
And,  lest  I  stifl'en  into  stone, 
I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 

Nor  feed  with  siglis  a  pa.s«ing  wind  : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

Ami  vaeant  yearning,  tlio'  with  niifjht 
To  scale  the  lieaven's  hii;hc)tt  height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 


316 


IN    MEMOMAJVI. 


Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky." 


"What  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 

But    mine    own    phantom    chanting 

hymns  ? 
And  on  the  depths  of  death  there  swims 

The  reflex  of'a  human  face. 

I  '11  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 


Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 
From  household  fountains  never  diy  ; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye. 

That  saw  thro'  all  the  Muses'  walk  ; 

Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man  ; 


Impassion'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  liery  course  ; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 
I3ut  touch'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom  ; 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  blood  ; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt. 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England  ;  not  the  schoolboy  heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unasked,  in  thine. 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face  ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  Tuine  eyes 
Have  look'd  on  :  if  they  look'd  in  vain, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


317 


My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 
Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years  : 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 
The  proud  was  half  disarm'd  of  pride. 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  double  tougue. 

The  stem  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by. 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  soften'd,  and  he  knew  not  why  ; 

While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart. 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine  ; 
And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were 
thine. 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Nor  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill. 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 
And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 


The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 
Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all, 
To  him  who  grasps  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown  ; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake. 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale  : 

For  who  can  always  act  ?  but  he, 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seem'd  to  be, 

Best  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  join'd 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind  ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spitw, 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light  ; 


And  thus  he  Lore  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan. 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  use. 


High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less. 
That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate  eyes 
On  glorious  insufficiencies, 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wert  thou  ?  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  for  ever  at  a  touch, 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too  much, 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour, 

Large  elements  in  order  brought. 
And  tracts  of  calm  from  tempest  made, 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway'd. 

In  vassal  tides  that  follow'd  thought. 

CXIII. 

'T  IS  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 
Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 

But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise  ; 

For  can  I  doubt,  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil  — 

I  doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have  been : 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 
A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force. 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course. 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and  go. 
With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overtlirowings,  and  with  cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 

cxiv. 
Who  loves  not  Knowledge  f     Who  shall 
rail 
Against  her  beauty  ?    May  she  mix 


318 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


With  men  and  prosper  !    Who  shall  fix 
Her  pillars  ?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire  : 
She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain  — 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith. 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons  ?  fiery -hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.     Let  her  know  her  place  ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild. 
If  all  be  not  in  vain  ;  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 

With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child  : 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind. 
But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
0,  friend,  who  camest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
AVho  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 


Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow. 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  lond  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale. 
And  milkier  eveiy  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea  ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood  ;  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land  ;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too  ;  and  my  regret 


Becomes  an  April  violet. 
And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest- 


Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 
That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes. 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and  takes 

The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all :  the  songs,  the  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust. 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fail'. 

Not  all  regret :  the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone  ; 
And  that  dear  voice,  I  once  have  known. 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine  : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  hapj)y  commune  dead  ; 
Less  yearning  for  the  friendshiji  fled, 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 


0  PAYS  and  hours,  yoiir  work  is  this. 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace,' 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss  : 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet ; 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundredfold  accrue. 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs. 
And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals, 
And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels. 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 


Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth  ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth. 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime  ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.     They  say. 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms. 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms. 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man  ; 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


319 


"WTio  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime  to 
clime, 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
And  of  himself  in  higher  place 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more  ; 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  gloiies,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore. 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears. 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears. 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.     Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

cxix. 

D00R.S,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more  ;  the  city  sleeps  ; 

I  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street ; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds  ;  I  see 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long-with- 
drawn 

A  light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 
And  think  of  early  days  and  thee. 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland 
And  bright  the  friendship  of  thine  eye  ; 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a  sigh 

1  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 

cxx. 
I  TRUST  I  have  not  wasted  breath  : 
I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain. 
Magnetic  mockeries  ;  not  in  vain, 
Like  Paul  with   beasts,  1  fought  with 
Death; 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay  : 
Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men. 

At  least  to  me  ?     I  would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 
Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action  like  the  greater  ape, 

But  I  was  bom  to  other  things. 


Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun 
And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  liim, 


Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 
And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done  ; 

The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain. 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore  ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door, 

And  life  is  darken'd  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night. 
By  thee  the  world's  gieat  work  is  heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird  ; 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light : 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream, 
And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink  ; 
Thou  hear'st  the  village  hammer  clink, 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper- Phosplior,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  la.st. 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past, 

Thy  place  is  changed  ;  thou  art  the  same. 


0,  WAST  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 
While  I  rose  up  against  my  doom. 
And  yearn'd  to  burst  the  folded  gloom. 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe. 
The  strong  imagination  roll 
A  s{)here  of  stars  about  my  soul. 

In  all  her  motion  one  with  law  ; 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now. 
And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow, 

Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  wave, 

Be  quicken'd  with  a  livelier  breath. 
And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy, 
As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I  slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death  ; 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 
And  every  dew-drop  paints  a  liow, 
The  wizard  lightnings  dtMjply  glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  rose, 

CXXIII. 

TllF.RK  rolls  the  deep  where  grow  the  tree. 
0  earth,  what  clianges  hast  thou  seen  I 
There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath 
been 

The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

Tlie  hills  arc  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands ; 


320 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 
Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true ; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 


That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless  ; 

Our  dearest  faith ;  ourghastliest  doubt ; 

He,  They,  One,  AH  ;  within,  without ; 
The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess ; 

I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye  ; 
Nor  thro'  the  questions  men  may  try. 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun  : 

If  e'er  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice  "  believe  no  more  " 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep  ; 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part. 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answer'd  "  I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear  : 
But  that  blind  clamor  made  me  wise  ; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries. 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near ; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands  ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 

That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 

cxxv. 

Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung. 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give. 
Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  hve 

A  contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth  ; 

She  did  but  look  through  dimmer  eyes  ; 

Or  Love  but  play'd  with  giacious  lies, 
Because  he  felt  so  fix'd  in  truth  : 
.^> 
'And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care. 

He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song  ; 

And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and  strong, 
He  set  his  royal  signet  there  ; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps,         I 


And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 
A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 


Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  1  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend. 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space. 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

CXXVII. 

And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear  ; 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 

A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  ev'n  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags  : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags  ; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down. 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood  ; 
The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high. 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky. 

And  the  great  ^on  sinks  in  blood, 

And  compass'd  by  the  fires  of  Hell  ; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tumult  from  afar, 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 


The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
TJnpalsied  when  he  met  with  Death, 
Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 

That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 
Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made. 
And  throned  races  may  degrade  ; 

Yet,  0  ye  mysteries  of  good. 


IN   MEMO  RI AM. 


321 


Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and  Fear, 

If  all  your  office  had  to  do 

With  old  results  that  look  like  new  ; 
If  this  were  all  your  mission  here, 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword. 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lies, 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  and  cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word. 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk. 
To  make  old  bareness  picturesque 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower ; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.     I  see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  cooperaut  to  an  end. 

cxxix. 
Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire. 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal  ; 

0  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 
There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher  ; 

Known  and  unknown  ;  human,  divine  ; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye  ; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die. 
Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine  ; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be  ; 

Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood  ; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good. 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

cxxx. 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

1  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ?    I  cannot  guess  ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  dilfusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less  : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before  ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh  ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  riyoice  ; 

I  ])rosi)er,  circled  with  thy  voice  ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 


cxxxi. 

0  LIVING  vnW  that  shalt  endure 

Wlien  all  that  seems  shall  sufler  shock. 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock. 

Flow  thro'  our  deeds  andmakethem  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust. 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-contiol. 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved. 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


0  TRUE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 
Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay  ; 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 

Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 
Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house  ;  nor  jiroved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this  ; 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  number'd  o'er 
Some  thrice  three  years  :   they  went 

and  came, 
Remade  the  blood   and  changed   the 
frame. 
And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more  ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 
In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret. 
But  like  a  statue  solid-set. 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown. 
For  I  myself  with  these  liave  giown 

To  something  greater  than  before  ; 

Which  makes  appar  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhynn's. 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
Tiiat  must  bt;  made  a  wife  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  lik.-  the  niouu 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower  : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  <y('s 
And  then  on  thee  ;  they  meet  thy  look 


322 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 
Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O  when  her  life  was  yet  in  hud, 
He  too  tbretold  the  perfect  rose. 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 

For  ever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy  ;  full  of  power ; 
As  gentle  ;  liberal-minded,  great. 
Consistent  ;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out :  the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride  ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear  : 

For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 
That  watch'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm. 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee  ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 
Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead  ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on. 
The  "  wilt  thou  "  answer'd,  and  again 
The  "wilt  thou  "  ask'd,till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will "  has  made  ye  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read. 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  mom, 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn  ; 

The  names  are  sign'd,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze  ; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 
The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

0  happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 
Await  them.     Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them  —  maidens  of  the  place. 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

0  happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They   leave   the   porch,    they  pass  the 

grave 
That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 
For  them  the  light  of  life  increased, 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast. 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 


Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 
To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun  ; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays. 

And  hearts  are  wann'd,  and  faces  bloom. 
As  drinking  health  to  bride  and  groom 

We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest. 
Perchance,  perchance,  among  the  rest. 

And,  tho'  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on. 
And  those  white-favor'd  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger  ;  it  is  late  ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 
From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass. 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew. 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed. 
And  how  she  look'd,  and  what  he  said, 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee. 
The   shade   of  passing  thought,   the 

wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health, 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-times-three. 

And  last  the  dance  ;  —  till  I  retire  : 
Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so  loud. 
And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming 
cloud. 

And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire  : 

And  rise,  0  moon,  from  yonder  down 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vajwr  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town. 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills. 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head, 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and 
spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills  ; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall ; 
And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 


MAUD. 


323 


By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds. 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  bein^  into  bounds, 

And,  moved  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge  ;  under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their  hand 

Is  Nature  like  an  open  book  ; 


No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did. 
And  hoi>ed,  and  suffer'd,  is  but  seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
Tliis  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-oft"  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


MAUD, 


AND    OTHER    POEAIS. 


MAUD. 
I. 


I  HATE  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the 

little  wood. 
Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with 

blood-red  heath. 
The  red-ribb'd  ledges  drip  with  a  silent 

horror  of  blood. 
And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask'd  her, 

answers  "Death." 


For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a 

body  was  found, 
His  who  had  given  me  life  —  0  father  ! 

0  God  !  was  it  well  ?  — 
Mangled,  and  flatten'd,  and  crush' d,  and 

dinted  into  the  ground  : 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him 

when  he  fell. 


Did  he  fling  himself  down  ?  who  knows  ? 

for  a  vast  speculation  had  fail'd, 
And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden'd,  and 

ever  wann'd  with  despair, 
And  out  he  walk'd  when  the  wind  like 

a  broken  worldling  wail'd, 


And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin'd  wood- 
lands drove  thro'  the  air. 


I  remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my 

hair  were  stirr'd 
By  a   shuffled   step,   by  a  dead  weight 

trail'd,  by  a  whisper'd  fright, 
And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a 

shock  on  my  heart  as  I  lieard 
The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a  mother  divide 

the  shuddering  night. 

V. 

Villany  somewhere  !  whose  ?   One  says, 

we  are  villains  all. 
Not  he  :  hid  honest  fame  should  at  least 

by  me  be  maintained  : 
But  tliat  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad 

estate  and  the  Hall, 
Dropt  olf  gorged  from  a  scheme  that  had 

left  us  flaccid  and  draiu'd. 


Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of 

Peace"?  we  have  made  them  a  curse, 
rickpockets,  each  liand  lusting  for  all 

that  is  not  its  own  ; 
And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain, 

is  it  Ijetter  or  worse 
Than  the  heart  of  tlu'  citizen  liissing  in 

war  on  his  own  hearthstone  ? 


324 


MAUD. 


'  I  hate  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood." 


But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the 
works  of  the  men  of  mind, 

When  who  but  a  fool  would  have  faith  in 
a  tradesman's  ware  or  his  word  ? 

Is  it  peace  or  war  ?  Civil  war,  as  I  think, 
and  that  of  a  kind 

The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bear- 
ing the  sword. 


Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take 

the  print 
Of  the  golden  age  —  why  not  ?     I  have 

neither  hope  nor  trust  ; 
May  make  my  heart  as  a  millstone,  set 

my  face  as  a  flint, 


Cheat   and  be  cheated,  and  die  :  who 
knows  ?  we  are  ashes  and  dust. 


Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slur- 
ring the  days  gone  by, 

When  the  poor  are  hovell'd  and  hustled 
together,  each  sex,  like  swine. 

When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when 
only  not  all  men  lie  ; 

Peace  in  her  vineyard —  yes  !  —  but  a 
company  forges  the  wine. 


And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in 
the  mflian's  head, 


MAUD. 


325 


Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell 

of  the  trampled  wife, 
And  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold 

to  the  poor  for  bread, 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the 

very  means  of  life, 


And  Sleep  must  lie  down  ann'd,  for  the 

villanous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of 

the  moonless  nights. 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a 

few  last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
To  pestle  a  poison'd  poison  behind  his 

ctiiusou  lights. 


When  a  Mammonite  mother  kills  her 
babe  for  a  burial  fee. 

And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a  pile  of 
children's  bones, 

Is  it  peace  or  war  ?  better,  war !  loud 
war  by  land  and  by  sea. 

War  with  a  thousand  battles,  and  shak- 
ing a  hundred  thrones. 


For  I  trust  if  an  enemy's  fleet  came  yon- 
der round  by  the  lull. 

And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from 
the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam. 

That  the  smooth-faced  snubnosed  rogue 
would  leap  from  his  counter  and 
till. 

And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with 
his  cheating  yardwand,  home.  — 


What !  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father 

raged  in  his  mood  ? 
Must  /  too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash 

myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I  made, 

nevermore  to  brood 
On  a  horror  of  shatter'd  limbs  and  a 

wretched  swindler's  lie  ? 


Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me  f  there  was 
love  in  the  passionate  shriek. 

Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made 
Iklse  luiste  to  the  grave  — 


Wrapt  in  a  cloak,  as  I  saw  him,  and 
thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 

And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  God, 
as  he  used  to  rave. 


I  am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I  am 

sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I  stay  ?  can  a  sweeter  chance 

ever  come  to  me  here  ? 
0,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well 

as  the  nerves  of  pain. 
Were  it  not  wise  if  I  fled  from  the  place 

and  the  pit  and  the  fear  1 


Workmen  up  at  the  Hall  !  —  they  are 

coming  back  from  abroad  ; 
The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the 

touch  of  a  millioiinaire  : 
I  have  heard,  1  know  not  whence,  of  the 

singular  beauty  of  Maud  ; 
I  play'd  with  the  girl  when  a  child  ;  she 

promised  then  to  be  fair. 


Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and 
tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 

Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ring- 
ing joy  of  the  Hall, 

Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when 
my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 

Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the 
moon-faced  darling  of  all,  — 


What  is  she  now  ?  My  dreams  are  bad. 

She  may  bring  me  a  curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor ; 

she  will  let  me  alone. 
Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether 

woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I  will  bury  myself  in  myself,  and  the 

Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 


II. 

Long  have  I  sigh'd   for  a  rnlm  :   God 

grant  I  may  find  it  at  last  ! 
It  will  never  be  broki-n  by  Maud,  she 

has  neither  savor  nor  salt, 
But  a  cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I  found 

when  her  carriage  past , 
Perfectly  beautiful :  let  it  be  granted  her: 

where  is  the  fault  ? 


326 


MAUD. 


All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyes  were  down- 
cast, not'  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splen- 
didly null, 

Dead  perfection,  no  more ;  nothing  more, 
if  it  had  not  been 

For  a  chance  of  travel,  a  paleness,  an 
hour's  defect  of  the  rose. 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a  little 
too  ripe,  too  full. 

Or  the  least  little  delicate  aquiline  curve 
in  a  sensitive  nose. 

From  which  I  escaped  heart-free,  with 
the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 

III. 

Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you 

so  cruelly  meek. 
Breaking  a  slumber  in  which  all  spleenful 

folly  was  drown'd. 
Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash 

dead  on  the  cheek. 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on 

a  gloom  profound  ; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for 

a  transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  your  beauty,  and 

ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon 

me  without  a  sound, 
Luminous,  gemlike,  ghostlike,  deathlike, 

half  the  night  long 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing,  till  I 

could  bear  it  no  more, 
But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own 

dark  garden  ground, 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad- 
flung  shipwrecking  roar. 
Now  to  the  scream  of  a  madden'd  beach 

dragg'd  down  by  the  wave, 
Walk'd  in  a  wintry  wind  by  a  ghastly 

glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low 

in  his  grave. 

IV.  ■  * 


A  MILLION  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby- 
budded  lime 

In  the  little  grove  where  I  sit  —  ah, 
wherefore  cannot  I  be 

Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the 
bountiful  sea^u  bland. 


When  the  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the 

breeze  of  a  softer  clime. 
Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a 

crescent  of  sea. 
The   silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage 

ling  of  the  land  ? 


Below  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks 

how  quiet  and  small  ! 
And  yet  bubbles  o'er  like  a  city,  with 

gossip,  scandal,  and  spite  ; 
And  Jack  on  his  alehouse  bench  has  as 

many  lies  as  a  Czar  ; 
And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a  red 

rock,  glimmers  the  Hall ; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I  see 

her  pass  like  a  light ; 
But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be 

my  leading  star ! 


When  have  I  bow'd  to  her  father,  the 

wrinkled  head  of  the  race  ? 
I  met  her  to-day  with  her  brother,  but 

not  to  her  brother  I  bow'd  : 
I  bow'd  to  his  lady-sister  as  she  rode  by 

on  the  moor ; 
But  the  fire  of  a  foolish  pride  flash' d 

over  her  beautiful  face. 
0  child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe 

it,  in  being  so  proud  ; 
Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and 

I  am  nameless  and  poor. 


I  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready 

to  slander  and  steal ; 
I  know  it,  and  smile  a  hard-set  smile, 

like  a  stoic,  or  like 
A  wiser  epicurean,   and  let  the  world 

have  its  way  : 
For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a  harm 

no  preacher  can  heal ; 
The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallo'v,  the 

sparrow  spear'd  by  the  shrike. 
And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I  sit  is 

a  world  of  plunder  and  prey. 


We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and 
Beauty  fair  in  her  flower  ; 

Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by 
an  unseen  hand  at  a  game 


MAUD. 


327 


That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and 

others  ever  succeed  ? 
Ah  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other 

here  for  an  hour  ; 
We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and 

grm  at  a  brother's  shame ; 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a 

little  breed. 


A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and 

Master  of  Earth, 
For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his 

river  billowing  ran, 
And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be 

Nature's  crowning  race. 
As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an 

infant  ripe  for  his  birth, 
So  many  a  million  of  ages  have  gone  to 

the  making  of  man  : 
He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last  ?  is  he 

not  too  base  ? 


The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of 

glory,  and  vain. 
An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a  spirit 

bounded  and  poor ; 
The  pa.ssionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirl'd 

into  folly  and  vice. 
I  would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep 

a  temperate  brain  ; 
For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man 

could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of 

old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 


For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an 

Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 
Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how 

God  will  bring  them  about  ? 
Our  pi  met  is  one,  the  suns  are  many, 

the  world  is  wide. 
Shall  I  weep  if  a  Poland  fall  ?  shall  I 

shriek  if  a  Hungary  fail  ? 
Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with 

rod  or  with  knout  ? 
I  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that 

made  it  will  guide. 

IX. 

Bo  mine  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  (juiet 
woodland  ways. 

Where  if  I  am  not  be  gay  let  a  passion- 
less peace  be  my  lot. 


Faivoff  from  the  clamor  of  liars  belied 

in  the  hubbub  of  lies  ; 
From  the  long-neck'd  geese  of  the  world 

that  are  ever  hissing  dispraise 
Because  their  natures  are  little,  and, 

whether  he  heed  it  or  not. 
Where  each  man  walks  with  his  head  in 

a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies. 


And  most  of  all  would  I  flee  from  the 
cruel  madness  of  love. 

The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the 
measureless  ill. 

Ah  Maud,  you  milkwhite  fawn,  you  are 
all  unmeet  for  a  wife. 

Your  mother  is  mute  in  her  grave  as  her 
image  in  marble  above  ; 

Your  father  is  ever  in  Loudon,  you  wan- 
der about  at  your  will ; 

You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses,  and  lain 
in  the  lilies  of  life. 


A  VOICE  by  the  cedar  tree. 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall  ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  nle, 

A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call  I 

Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life. 

In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 

Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array. 

Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 

March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 

To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 


Maud  with  her  exquisite  face. 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny 
sky. 

And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  £ngli.sh 
green, 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her 
grace. 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that 
cannot  die. 

Till  I  well  ronid  weep  for  a  time  so  sor- 
did and  mean. 

And  myself  so  languid  and  ba.se. 


Silencejlipantiful  voice 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 


328 


MAUD. 


With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

Aglorj'  1  shall  not  find. 

Still !  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a 

choice 
But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall 

before 
Her   feet   on   the   meadow  grass,    and 

adore, 
Not  her,    who  is  neither  courtly  nor 

kind, 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 


VI. 


Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale. 

No  sun,  but  a  wannish  glare 

In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 

And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are 

bow'd 
Caught  and  cuff'd  by  the  gale  : 
I  had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 


Wliom  but  Maud  should  T  meet 
Last  night,  when  the  sunset  bum'd 
On  the  blossom'd  gable-ends 
At  the  Jiead  of  the  village  street, 
"Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet  ? 
And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile 

so  sweet 
She  made  me  divine  amends 
For  a  courtesy  not  retum'd. 


And  thus  a  delicate  spark 
Of  glowing  and  growing  light 
Thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 
Kept  itself  warm  in   the  heart  of  my 

dreams, 
Ready  to  burst  in  a  color'd  flame  ; 
Till  at  last  when  the  morning  came 
In  a  cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 
But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 


What  if  with  her  sunny  hair. 
And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold, 
She  meant  to  weave  me  a  snare 
Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 
Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 
To  entangle  me  when  we  met, 


To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a  silken  net 
And  fawn  at  a  victor's  feet. 


Ah,  what  shall  I  be  at  fifty 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive. 

If  I  find  the  world  so  bitter 

When  I  am  but  twenty-five  ? 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat. 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd, 

And  her  smile  wereall  that  I  dream'd. 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 


What  if  tho'  her  e)'e  seem'd  full 
Of  a  kind  intent  to  me, 
What  if  that  dandy-despot,  he, 
Thatjewell'd  mass  of  millineiy, 
That  oil'd  and  curl'd  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence, 
Her  brother,  from  wliom  I  keep  aloof. 
Who  wants  the  finer  politic  sense 
To  mask,  tho'  but  in  his  own  behoof, 
With  a  glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn  — 
What  if  he  had  told  her  yestermorn 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A  face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign'dv 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes. 
That  so,  when  the  rotten  hustings  shake 
In  another  month  to  his  brazen  ues, 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gain'd. 


For  a  raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side. 
Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch  and 

ward. 
Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 
Yea  too,  myself  from  myself  I  guard. 
For  often  a  man's  own  angry  pride 
Is  cap  and  bells  for  a  fool. 


Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 
Came  out  of  her  pitying  womanhood, 
For  am  I  not,  am  I  not,  here  alone 
So  many  a  summer  since  she  died. 
My  mother,  who  was  so  gentle  and  good  ? 
Living  alone  in  an  empty  house, 
Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood. 
Where  I  hear  the  dead  at  midday  moan, 
And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot 

mouse, 
And  my  own  sad  name  in  comers  cried. 
When  the   shiver  of  dancing  leaves  is 

thrown 


MAUD. 


329 


About  its  echoing  chambers  wide, 
Till  a  morbid  hate  and  horror  have  grown 
Of  a  world  in  which  I  have  hardly  mixt, 
And  a  morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 
On  a  heart  half-turn'd  to  stone. 


0  heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and  caught 
By  that  you  swore  to  withstand  ? 
For  what  was  it  else  ivithin  me  wrought 
But,  I  fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of  love. 
That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and 

trip 
When  I  saw  the  treasured  splendor,  her 

hand, 
Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove. 
And  the  sunlight  broke  from  her  lip  ? 


I  have  play'd  with  her  when  a  child ; 

She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I  may  be  beguiled 

By  some  coquettish  deceit. 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat, 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd, 

And  her  smile  had  all  that  1  dream'd. 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 


TIL 


Did  I  hear  it  half  in  a  doze 
Long  since,  I  know  not  where  ? 

Did  1  dream  it  an  hour  ago. 
When  asleep  in  this  arm-chair? 


Men  were  drinking  together. 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me  ; 

"Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  the  boy 
Will  have  plenty  :  so  let  it  be." 

in. 

Is  it  an  echo  of  something 
Read  with  a  boy's  delight, 

Viziers  nodding  together 
In  some  Arabian  night  ? 

IV. 

Strange,  that  I  hear  two  men, 
Somewhere,  talking  of  me  ; 

"  Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  my  lioy 
Will  have  plenty  :  so  let  it  be." 


VIII. 


She  came  to  the  village  church. 
And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone  ; 
An  angjl  watching  an  urn 
Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone  ; 
And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her  eyes, 
And  suddenly,  sweetly,  strangely  blush'd 
To  tind  they  were  met  by  my  own  ; 
And  suddenly,  sweetly,  my  heart  beat 

stronger 
And  thicker,  until  I  heard  no  longer 
The  snowy-banded,  dilettante. 
Delicate-handed  priest  intone  ; 
And  thought,  is  it  pride,  and  mused  and 

sigh'd 
"  Ko  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride." 


IX. 

I  WAS  walking  a  mile. 
More  than  a  mile  from  the  shore, 
The  sun  look'd  out  with  a  smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor, 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  landj 
Rapidly  riding  far  away. 
She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side. 
Something  flash'd  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  hill  1  saw  them  ride, 
In  a  moment  they  were  gone  : 
Like  a  sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 
Then  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 


Sick,  am  I  sick  of  a  jealous  dread  f 
Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 
This  new  -  made  lord,   whose   splendor 

plucks 
The  slavish  hat  from  the  villager's  head  ? 
Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died. 
Gone  to  a  blacker  T)it,  for  wliom 
Grimy  nakednesx  dragging  his  trucks 
A  nd  laying  his  trams  in  a  |)nison'<l  gloom 
Wrought,   till  he  crept  from  a  gutted 

mine 
Master  of  half  a  servile  sliire, 
And  hft  his  coal  all  turn'd  into  gold 
To  a  grandson,  first  of  Iuh  noble  line, 
Ricli  in  the  gnwx  all  women  desire. 


330 


MAUD. 


"  She  came  to  the  villag^e  chnrch. 
And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone." 


Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men  adore, 
And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a  girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a  work  divine, 
Seeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 
New  as  his  title,  built  last  year, 
There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a  cockney  ear. 


What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out  ? 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her  side 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  I  am  sure  was  he  : 
Bound  for  the  HaU,  and  I  think  for  a 
bride. 


Blithe  would  her  brother's  acceptance  be. 
Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt. 
To  a  lord,  a  captain,  a  padded  shaje, 
A  bought  commission,  a  waxen  face, 
A  rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape  — 
Bought  ?  what  is  it  he  cannot  buy  ? 
And  therefore  splenetic,  personal,  base, 
A  wounded  thing  with  a  rancorous  cry. 
At  war  with  myself  and  a  wretched 

race. 
Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  I. 


Last  week  came  one  to  the  county  town. 
To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down. 
And  play  the  game  of  the  despot  kings. 


MAUD. 


331 


Tho'  the  state  has  done  it  and  thrice  as 

well  : 
This  broad  -  brimm'd  hawker  of  holy 

things, 
Whose  ear  is  cramm'd  with  his  cotton, 

and  rings 
Even  in  dreams  to  the  clunk  of  his  pence, 
This  huckster  put  down  war !  can  he  tell 
Whether  warbea  causeor  a  consequence  ? 
Put  down  the  passions  that  make  earth 

HeU! 
Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride. 
Jealousy,  down  !  cut  off  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear  ; 
Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fireside. 
With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear, 
For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 


I  wish  I  could  hear  again 

The  chivalrous  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy ! 

I  might  persuade  myself  then 

She  would  not  do  herself  this  great  wrong, 

To  take  a  wanton  dissolute  boy 

For  a  man  and  leader  of  men. 


Ah  God,  for  a  man  with  heart,  head,  hand. 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones  gone 
For  ever  and  ever  by, 
One  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant  land. 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat,  —  one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 


And  ah  for  a  man  to  arise  in  me. 
That  the  man  I  am  may  cease  to  be  ! 


XI. 


0  LET  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet ; 
Tlien  let  come  what  come  may. 
What  matter  if  1  go  mad, 

1  shall  have  had  my  day. 


Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 


Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 

That  there  is  one  to  love  me  ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may 
To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. 


XIL 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 


Where  was  Maud  ?  in  our  wood  ; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies. 

Myriads  blow  together. 


Birds  in  our  wood  sang 
Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 

Maud  is  here,  here,  here 
In  among  the  lilies. 


I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand. 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately ; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen. 
But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 


I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favor  ! 
0  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 

If  lowliness  could  save  her. 


I  know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy. 

For  her  feet  have  touch'd  <he  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her. 

Where  is  Aland,  Muml,  Aland, 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

VIII. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charley  snarling, 
Go  back,  my  lonl,  anroKS  the  moor, 

You  are  not  her  darling. 


332 


MAUD. 


XIII. 


Scorn'd,  to  be  scom'd  by  one  that  I  scorn, 
Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret  ? 
That  a  calamity  hard  to  be  borne  ? 
Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 
Fool  tliat  I  am  to  be  vext  with  his  pride  ! 
I  past  him,  I  was  crossing  his  lands  ; 
He  stood  on  the  path  a  little  aside  ; 
His  face,  as  1  grant,  in  spite  of  spite, 
Has  a  broad-blown  comeliness,  red  and 

white. 
And  six  feet  two,  as  I  think,  he  stands  ; 
But  his  essences  turn'd  the  live  air  sick. 
And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Sunn'd  itself  on  his  breast  and  his  hands. 


Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 
I  long'd  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship  ; 
But  while  I  past  he  was  humming  an 

air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a  glossy  boot. 
And  curving  a  contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a  stony  British  stare. 


'Why  sits  he  here  in  his  father's  chair  ? 
That  old  man  never  comes  to  his  place  : 
Shall  I  believe  him  ashamed  to  be  seen  ? 
For  only  once,  in  the  village  street. 
Last  year,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face, 
A  gray  old  wolf  and  a  lean. 
Scared}',  now,  would  I  call  him  a  cheat  ; 
For  then,  perhaps,  as  a  child  of  deceit. 
She  might  by  a  true  descent  be  untrue  ; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet  : 
Tho'  1  fancy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To  the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  side  ; 
Her  mother  has  been  a  thing  complete, 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin  : 
Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
AtkI  lieajj'd  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  tliat  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race. 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 


Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be  ! 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me  ? 


XIV. 


Maud  has  a  garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a  lawn  ; 
There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower, 
And  thither  I  climb'd  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden-gate  ; 
A  lion  ramps  at  the  top. 
He  is  claspt  by  a  passion-flower. 


Maud's  own  little  oak-room 

(Which  Maud,  like  a  precious  stone 

Set  in  the  heart  of  the  carven  gloom, 

Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 

She  sits  by  her  music  and  books, 

And  her  brother  lingers  late 

With  a  roystering  company)look3 

Upon  Maud's  own  garden-gate  : 

And  I  thought  as  I  stood,  if  a  hand,  as 

white 
As  ocean -foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 
On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my  Delight 
Had  a  sudden    desire,  like   a  glorious 

ghost,  to  glide. 
Like  a   beam  of  the   seventh   Heaven, 

down  to  my  side, 
There  were  but  a  step  to  be  made. 


The  fancy  flatter'd  my  mind, 

And  again  seem'd  overbold  ; 

Now  1  thought  that  she  cared  for  me, 

Now  I  thought  she  was  kind 

Only  because  she  was  cold. 


I  heard  no  sound  where  I  stood 
But  the  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 
Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood  ; 
Or  the  voice  of  the  long  sea-wave  as  it 

swell'd 
Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawn  ; 
But  I  look'd,  and  round,  all  round  the 

house  I  beheld 
The  death-white  curtain  drawn  ; 
Felt  a  horror  over  me  creep. 
Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath. 
Knew  that  the  death-white  curtain  meant 

but  sleep. 
Yet  I  shudder'd  and  thought  like  a  fool 

of  the  sleep  of  death. 


MAUD. 


333 


XV. 

So  dark  a  mind  within  me  dwells, 
And  I  make  myself  such  evil  cheer, 

That  if  /  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  some  one  else  may  have  much 
to  fear ; 

But  if  7  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  1  should  be  to  myself  more  dear. 

Shall  I  not  take  care  of  all  that  I  think, 

Yea  ev'n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink. 

If  1  be  dear. 

If  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else  ? 


XVI. 


This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 
The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight ; 
And  so  that  he  find  what  he  went  to 

seek. 
And  fulsome  Pleasure  clog  him,  and  drown 
Hisheartin  the  gross  mud- honey  of  town, 
He  may  stay  for  a  year  who  has  gone  for 

a  week  : 
But  this  is  the  day  when  I  must  speak, 
And  I  see  my  Oread  coming  down, 
O  this  is  the  day  ! 

0  beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I  dare  to  look  her  way  ; 
Think  I  may  hold  dominion  sweet. 
Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her  breast, 
And  dream  of  her  beauty  with  tender 

dread, 
From  the  delicate  Arab  arch  of  her  feet 
To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as 

the  crest 
Of  a  peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head. 
And  she  knows  it  not':  0,  if  she  knew  it, 
To  know  her  beauty  might  half  undo  it. 

1  know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  save 
My  yet  young  life  in  the  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps   from  madness,    perhaps   from 

crime. 
Perhaps  from  a  selfish  grave. 


What,  if  she  be  fasten'd  to  this  fool 

lord. 
Dare  I  bid  her  abide  by  her  word  T 
Should  I  love  her  so  well  if  she 
Had  given  her  word  to  a  thing  so  low  ? 
Shall  1  love  her  as  well  if  she 
Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for  me  ? 
I  trust  that  it  is  not  so. 


Catch  not  my  breath,  0  clamorous  heart. 
Let  not  my  tongue  be  a  thrall  to  my  eye, 
For  I  must  tell  her  before  we  part, 
1  must  tell  her,  or  die. 


XVIL 

Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields. 
Go  not,  happy  day. 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Eosy  is  the  West, 

Kosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips. 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

O'er  the  blowing  ships. 
Over  blowing  seas. 

Over  seas  at  rest. 
Pass  the  happy  news. 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West ; 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar  tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  checks. 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


XVIIL 


I  HAVE  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only 

friend. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for  end, 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised 

good. 


None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the diy-tongiied  laurels'  patter- 
ing talk 

Secm'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden 
walk. 


334 


MAUD. 


And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes 

once  more  ; 
But  even  then  1  heard  her  close  the  door, 
The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she 

is  gone. 

III. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  de- 
ceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy 

delicious  East, 
Sighing  for  Lebanon, 
Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  in- 
creased, 
Fpon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air. 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my 

fate, 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar-flame ; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have 


"With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thomless  garden,  there 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from 
whom  she  came. 


Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches 

sway. 
And  yoii  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy 

day 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 
"Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn. 
As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  bom 
To  labor  and  the  mattock -harden'd  hand. 
Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  un- 
derstand 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  you  tyrants  inyouriron  skies. 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes. 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  bum  and 

brand 
His  nothino^ness  into  man. 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 
Who  in  this  stormy, gulf  have  found  a 

pearl 
Tht  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky. 
And  de  accept  my  madness,  and  would 

die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  sim- 
ple girl. 


Would  die ;  for  sullen-seeming  Death 

may  give 
More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet 't  is  sweet 

to  live. 
Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass  ; 
It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 
A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 
A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 


Not  die  ;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 

And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal 
wrongs. 

0,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drink- 
ing-songs. 

Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of 
death  ? 

Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  lover's 
kiss. 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this  ? 

"The  dusky  strand  of  Death  iu woven 
here 

With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  him- 
self more  dear." 


Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 
Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  3'onder  bay  ? 
And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 
Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal 

white, 
And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play  ; 
But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her 

sight 
And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and 

stol'n  away 
To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies 

dwell 
Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 
May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace 

affright ! 
Dear  heart,  1  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy 

spell. 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight. 
My  own  heart's  heart  and  ownest  own 

farewell ; 
It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go  : 
And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 
Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night ! 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the 

glow 
Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so 

bright  ? 


MAUD. 


335 


/  have  climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 
Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things 

below. 
Beat  with   my  heart  more  blest  than 

heart  can  tell, 
Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 
That  seems  to  draw  —  but  it  shall  not 

be  so  : 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 


XIX. 


Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-night, 
Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 


My  dream  I  do  I  dream  of  bliss  ? 
I  have  walk'd  awake  with  Truth. 
0  when  did  a  morning  shine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 
Darken'd  watching  a  mother  decline 
And  that  dead  man  at  her  heart  and  mine ; 
For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I  ? 
Yet  so  did  I  let  my  freshness  die. 


I  trust  that  I  did  not  talk 
I  To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk 

iFor  often  in  lonely  wanderings 
have  cursed  him  even  to  lifeless  things) 
I  But  I  trust  that  1  did  not  talk, 
I  Not  touch  on  her  father's  sin  : 
;  I  am  sure  I  did  but  speak 
;  Of  my  mother's  faded  cheek 
1  When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin, 
!  That  I  felt  she  was  slowly  dying 
[  Vext  with  lawyers  and  harass'd  with  debt : 
!  For  how  often  I  caught  her  with  eyes 

all  wet, 
I  Shaking  her  head  at  her  son  and  sighing 
1  A  world  of  trouble  within  ! 


j  And  Maud  too,  Maud  was  moved 
i  To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 
I  As  one  scarce  less  forlorn, 
i  Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 
|l  From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share  her 
I  heart, 

[  And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud, 
I  The  household  Fury  sprinkled  with  blood 
6v  which  our  houses  are  torn  : 
How  strange  was  what  she  said, 


When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 
Hung  over  her  dying  bed  — 
That  Maud's  dark  father  and  mine 
Had  bound  us  one  to  the  other, 
Betrothed  us  over  their  wine. 
On  the  day  when  Maud  was  bom  ; 
Seal'd  her  mine  from  her  first  sweet  breath. 
Mine,  mine  by  a  right,  from  birth  till 

death. 
Mine,  mine  —  our  fathers  have  sworn. 


But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a  heat 
To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a  bond. 
That,  if  left  uncancell'd,  had  been  so 

sweet : 
And  none  of  us  thought  of  a  something 

beyond, 
A  desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the 

child. 
As  it  were  a  duty  done  to  the  tomb. 
To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  reconciled ; 
And  I  was  cursing  them  and  my  doom, 
And  letting  a  dangerous  thought  run  wild 
While  often  abroad  in  the  fragrant  gloom 
Of  foreign  churches  —  I  see  her  there, 
Bright  English  lily,  breathin»  a  prayer 
To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled  ! 


But  then  what  a  flint  is  he  ! 
Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 
I  find  whenever  she  touch'd  on  me 
This  brother  had  laugh'd  her  down. 
And  at  last,  when  each  came  home. 
He  had  darken'd  into  a  frown. 
Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 
To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  before  ; 
And  this  was  what  hadredden'd  her  cheek 
When  I  bow'd  to  her  on  the  moor. 


Yet  Maud,  altho'  not  blind 
To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 
I  see  she  cannot  but  love  him. 
And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind, 
And  wishes  me  to  approve  him. 
And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 
Sick  once,  with  a  fear  of  worse. 
That  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and  play, 
Sat  with  her,  read  t6  her,  night  and  day. 
And  tended  her  like  a  nurse.  , 

«» 

VIII. 

Kind  ?  but  the  deathbed  desire 
Spum'd  by  this  heir  of  the  liar  — 


336 


MAUD. 


Eough  but  kind  f  yet  I  know 
He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this, 
That  he  plots  against  me  still. 
Kind  to  Maud  ?  that  were  not  amiss. 
Well,  rough  but  kind  ;  why  let  it  be  so  : 
For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will  ? 


For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true, 
As  long  as  my  life  endures 
I  feel  1  shall  owe  you  a  debt, 
That  I  never  can  hope  to  pay  ; 
And  if  ever  I  should  forget 
That  I  owe  this  debt  to  you 
And  for  your  sweet  sake  to  yours  ; 
0  then,  what  then  shall  I  say  ?  — 
If  ever  I  should  forget. 
May  God  make  me  more  wretched 
Then  ever  I  have  been  yet ! 


So  now  I  have  sworn  to  bury 

All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

I  feel  so  free  and  so  clear 

By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight, 

That  I  should  grow  light-headed,  I  fear, 

Fantastically  merry  ; 

But  that  her  brother  comes,  like  a  blight 

On  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to-night. 


XX. 


Strange,  that  I  felt  so  gay, 
Strange  that  /  tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy  ; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him,  — 
She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him  — 
But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly  : 
Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a  little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due  ? 
Or  for  chilling  his  caresses 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners. 
Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses  ? 
Now  I  know  her  but  in  two, 
Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather. 
Or  the  frock  and  gypsy  bonnet 
Be  the  neater  and  completer ; 
For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 


But  to-morrow,  if  we  live. 
Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A  grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  squirelings  near ; 
And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels. 
And  the  bird  of  prey  will  hover. 
And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 


A  grand  political  dinner 

To  the  men  of  many  acres, 

A  gathering  of  the  Tory, 

A  dinner  and  then  a  dance 

For  the  maids  and  marriage-makers. 

And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 

At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

rv. 

For  I  am  not  invited. 
But,  with  the  Sultan's  pardon, 
I  am  all  as  well  delighted. 
For  I  know  her  own  rose-garden. 
And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over  ; 
And  then,  0  then,  come  out  to  me 
For  a  minute,  but  for  a  minute, 
Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling. 
Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 

XXI. 

Rivulet  crossing  my  ground, 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I  found, 

Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me. 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tinkling  fall. 

And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea  ; 

0  Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 

(If  I  read  her  sweet  will  right) 

On  a  blushing  mission  to  me. 

Saying  in  odor  and  color,  "Ah,  be 

Among  the  roses  to-night." 

XXII. 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 


MAUD. 


337 


"  Come  Into  the  garden,  Maud." 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

jLnd    the   woodbine   spices  are    wafted 
abroad. 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves;, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky. 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  snn  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 


All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night   has  the  casement  jessamine 
stin'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking" bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moou. 

22 


I  said  to  the  lily,  "  Tliere  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gaj'. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  f 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  settling  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 


I  said  to  the  rose,  "Tlie  brief  niglit  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

0  young  lord-lov(>r,  wliiit  sitjlisii re  tho.se. 
For  one  that  will  never  1«^  tliint; ! 

But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  1  swaio  to  the 
ro.se, 
"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 


And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 
blood, 
As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  Imll ; 


338 


MAUD. 


And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 
For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

VII. 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left 
so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea  ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake. 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 


Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls. 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done. 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls. 
Queen  lil)'  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with 
curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear  ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate  ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is 
near"  ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,   "  She  is 
late"  ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear  " ; 

And  the  Uly  whispers,  "  I  wait." 


She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


XXIII. 


"The  fault  was  mine,  the  fault  was 

mine  "  — 
Whyam  I  sitting  here  so  stunn'dand still, 
Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on  the 

hill?  — 
It  is  this  guilty  hand  !  — 
And  there  rises  ever  a  passionate  cry 
From  underneath  in  the  darkening  land — 
What  is  it,  that  has  been  done  ? 
0  dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth  and  sky. 
The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy  rising 

sun. 
The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate  ; 
For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken  a 

word, 
When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to  the 

gate. 
He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord  ; 
Heap'd  on  her  terms  of  disgrace. 
And  while  she  wept,  and  1  strove  to  be  cool, 
He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie. 
Till  I  with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke, 
Andhestruck  me,  madman,  over  the  face. 
Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool. 
Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by  : 
Struck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke  ; 
Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeemable 

woe  ; 
For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood. 
And  a  million  horrible  bellowing  echoes 

broke 
From  the  red-ribb'd  hollow  behind  the 

wood, 
And    thunder'd   up    into    Heaven   the 

Christless  code, 
That  must  have  life  for  a  blow. 
Ever  and  ever  afresh  they  seem'd  to  grow. 
Was  it  he  lay  there  with  a  fading  eye  ? 
"The  fault  was  mine,"  he  whisper' d, 

"fly!" 

Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 
The  ghastly  Wraith  of  one  that  I  know  ; 
And  there  rang  on  a  sudden  a  passionate 

cry, 
A  cry  for  a  brother's  blood  : 
It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears,  till 

I  die,  till  I  die. 


Is  it  gone  ?  my  pulses  beat  — 

What  was  it  ?  a  lying  trick  of  the  brain  ? 

Yet  I  thought  I  saw  her  stand, 

A  shadow  there  at  my  feet. 

High  over  the  shadoAvy  land. 


MAXJD. 


339 


It  is  gone  ;  and  the  heavens  fall  in  a 
gentle  rain. 

When  they  should  burst  and  drown  with 
deluging  storms 

The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger  and 
lust, 

The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how  to 
forgive  : 

Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold 
Thee  just, 

Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race  of  ven- 
omous worms. 

That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust ; 

We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 


XXIV. 


See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl. 
Lying  close  to  my  foot. 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl. 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  1 


What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can. 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 


The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn. 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl' d, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water-world  ? 


Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand. 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three  decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock. 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand  I 


Breton,  not  Briton  ;  here 

Like  a  shipwreck'd  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear  — 

Plagued  with  a  iiitting  to  and  fro, 

A  disease,  a  hard  mechanic  ghost 

That  never  came  from  on  high 

Nor  ever  arose  from  below. 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye, 

Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main  — 

Why  should  it  look  like  Maud  ? 

Am  I  to  be  overawed 

By  what  I  cannot  but  know 

Is  a  juggle  bom  of  the  brain  ? 


Back  from  the  Breton  coast, 

Sick  of  a  nameless  fear. 

Back  to  the  dark  sea-line 

Looking,  thinking  of  all  I  have  lost ; 

An  old  song  vexes  my  ear  ; 

But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 


For  years,  a  measureless  ill, 
For  years,  for  ever,  to  part  — 
But  she,  she  would  love  me  still ; 
And  as  long,  0  God,  as  she 
Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me. 
So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt. 
Shall  I  nurse  in  my  dark  heart. 
However  weary,  a  spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 


Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 

With  a  passion  so  intense 

One  would  think  that  it  well 

Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye,  — 

That  it  should,  by  being  so  overwrought, 

Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense 

For  a  shell,  or  a  flower,  little  things 

Which  else  would  have  been  past  by  ! 

And  now  I  remember,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 

(For  he  had  many,  poor  worm)  and  thought 

It  is  his  mother's  nair. 


Who  knows  if  he  be  dead  f 

Whether  I  need  have  fled  ? 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood  ? 

However  this  may  be, 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  toings  good, 

While  I  am  over  the  sea  I 


340 


MAUD. 


Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by, 
But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and 

high, 
Whatever  happen  to  me  ! 
Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by  ; 
But  come  to  her  waking,  find  her  asleep, 
Power*  of  the  height,  Powers  of  the  deep, 
And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die. 


XXV. 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone  ! 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 

Thou  canst  not  understand 

That  thou  art  left  for  ever  alone  : 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.  — 

Or  if  I  ask  thee  why. 

Care  not  thou  to  reply  : 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 

When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 


XXVI. 


0  THAT't  were  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  ! 


When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth. 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 


A  shadow  flits  before  me. 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  ; 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell 

us 
AVhat  and  where  they  be. 


It  leads  me  forth  at  evening. 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 


Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies  ; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  moiTow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 


'T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  a  dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls  ; 
'T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet. 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings  ; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet ; 
She  is  singing  in  the  meadow. 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 


Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old. 
My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 
My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  ? 
But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passionate 

cry. 
There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 
And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roU'd  ; 
For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city, 
And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled  ; 
In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 
Witliout  knowledge,  without  pity. 
By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 


Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again. 
Mix  not  memoiy  with  doubt. 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about ! 
'T  is  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without. 


Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall. 
And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide  ; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 


MAUD. 


341 


Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

I  steal,  a  wasted  frame, 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there. 

Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud. 

The  shadow  still  the  same  ; 

And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 

My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 


Alas  for  her  that  met  me. 

That  heard  me  softly  call. 

Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 

At  the  quiet  evenfall. 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  haU. 

XII. 
"Would  the  happy  spirit  descend, 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest. 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  "  forgive  the  wrong," 
Or  to  ask  her,  "take  me,  sweet. 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest "  ? 


But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 

And  will  not  let  me  be  ; 

And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me  : 

Always  I  long  to  creep 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 


XXVII. 


Dead,  long  dead, 

Long  dead  ! 

And  my  heart  is  a  handful  of  dust. 

And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head. 

And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain, 

For  inti)  a  shallow  grave  they  are  thrust. 

Only  a  yard  beneath  the  street, 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat, 

The  hoofs  of  the  horses  bimt. 

Beat  into  my  scalp  and  my  brain, 

"With  never  an  end  to  the  stream  of 

passing  feet. 
Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  biuying, 


Clamor  and  rumble,  and  ringing  and 

clatter. 
And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad, 
For  1  thought  the  dead  had  peace,  but 

it  is  not  so  ; 
To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that 

not  sad  ? 
But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro. 
Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go  ; 
And  then  to  hear  a  dead  man  chatter 
Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 


Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began, 

They  cannot  even  bury  a  man  ; 

And  tho'  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the  days 

that  are  gone. 
Not  a  bell  was  rung,  notaprayerwas  read ; 
It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  the 

world  of  the  dead  ; 
There  is  none  that  does  his  work,  not 

one; 
A  touch  of  their  office  might  have  sufficed. 
But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill  their 

church, 
As  the  churches  have  kill'd  their  Christ 


See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing, 
No  limit  to  his  distress  ; 
And  another,  a  lord  of  all  things,  praying 
To  his  own  great  self,  as  I  guess  ; 
Andanother,  astate^man  there,  betraying 
His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  press  ; 
And  yonder  a  vile  physician,  blabbing 
The  case  of  his  patient  —  all  for  what  ? 
To  tickle  the  maggot  born  in  an  empty 

head, 
And  wheedle  a  world  that  loves  him  not, 
For  it  is  but  a  world  of  the  dead. 


Nothing  but  idiot  gabble  ! 

For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 

And  then  not  understood. 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold  ; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  public 

good. 
But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 
For  I  never  whi.si)er'(l  a  jirivat"!  affair 
Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  numse, 
No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone. 
But  I  heard  it  shouted  at  once  from  the 

top  of  the  house  : 
Everything  came  to  be  known  : 
Who  told  Am  we  were  there  I 


342 


MAUD. 


Notthatgray  old  wolf.for  he  came  not  back 
From   the   wilderness,    full   of  wolves, 

where  he  used  to  lie  ; 
He  has  gather'd  the  bones  for  his  o'er- 

grown  whelp  to  crack  ; 
Crack  them  now  for  yourself,  and  howl, 

and  die. 


Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip, 
And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat ; 
I  know  not  whether  he   came  in  the 

Hanover  ship. 
But  I  know  that  he  lies  and  listens  mute 
In  an  ancient  mansion's  crannies  and 

holes  : 
Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it. 
Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes, 

poor  souls ! 
It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 


Tell  him  now  :  she  is  standing  here  at 

my  head  ; 
Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind  ; 
He  may  take  her  now  ;    for  she  never 

speaks  her  mind, 
But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 
She  is  not  of  us,  as  I  divine  ; 
She  comes  from  another  stiller  world  of 

the  dead, 
Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 


But  I  know  where  a  garden  grows. 
Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  beside. 
All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 
That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season  is 

good, 
To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and  flutes : 
It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fruits. 
And  I  almost  fear  they  are  not  roses,  but 

blood  ; 
For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of  pride. 
He  linkt  a  dead  man  there  to  a  spectral 

bride  ; 
For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a  Sultan  of 

brutes, 
Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side  ? 


But  what  will  the  old  man  say  ? 

He  laid  a  cruel  snare  in  a  pit 

To  catch  a  friend  of  mine  one  stormy  day ; 


Yet  now  I  conld  even  weep  to  think  of  it ; 
For  what  will  the  old  man  say 
When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse  Ua. 
the  pit  ? 


Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  public  foe, 
Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low. 
That  were  a  public  merit,  far. 
Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from  sin  ; 
But  the  red  life  spilt  for  a  private  blow  -^ 
I  swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless  war 
Are  scarcely  even  akin. 


0  me,  why  have  they  not  buried  me  deep 

enough  ? 
Is  it  kind  to  have  made  me  a  grave  so 

rough. 
Me,  that  was  never  a  quiet  sleeper  ? 
Maybe  still  I  am  but  half-dead  ; 
Then  I  cannot  be  wholly  dumb  ; 

1  will  cry  to  the  steps  above  my  head. 
And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind  heart 

will  come 
To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 


XXVIII. 


My  life  has  creptsolong  on  a  broken  wing 
Thro'  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror 

and  fear. 
That  I  come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for  a 

little  thing : 
My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a  time 

of  year 
When  the  face  of  night  is  fair  on  the 

dewy  downs, 
And  the  shining  dafi'odil  dies,  and  the 

Charioteer 
And  starry  Gemini  hang  like  glorious 

crowns 
Over  Orion's  grave  low  down  in  the  west. 
That  like  a  silent  lightning  under  the  stars 
She  seem'd  to  divide  in  a  dream  from  a 

band  of  the  blest. 
And  spoke  of  a  hope  for  the  world  in  the 

coming  wars  — 
"  And  in  that  hope,  dear  soul,  let  trouble 

have  rest, 
Knowing  I  tarry  for  thee,"  and  pointed 

to  Mars 
As  he  glow'd  like  a  ruddy  shield  on  the 

Lion's  breast. 


THE  BROOK. 


343 


And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  yielded  a 
dear  delight 

To  have  look'd,  tho'  but  in  a  dream,  up- 
on eyes  so  fair, 

That  had  been  in  a  weary  world  my  one 
thing  bright ; 

And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  lighten'd 
my  despair 

When  I  thought  that  a  war  would  arise 
in  defence  of  the  right, 

That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend 
or  cease, 

The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  an- 
cient height, 

Nor  Britain's  one  sole  God  be  the  mil- 
lionnaire  : 

No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all,  and 
Peace 

Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a  languid  note, 

And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd 
increase. 

Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a  slothful 
shore. 

And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  can- 
non's throat 

Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind 
no  more. 


And  as   months  ran  on   and  rumor  of 

battle  grew, 
"It  is  time,  it  is  time,  O  passionate 

heart,"  said  I 
(For  I  cleaved  to  a  cause  that  I  felt  to  be 

pure  and  true), 
"It  is  time,  0   passionate  heart  and 

morbid  eye, 
Tliat  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should 

die." 
And  I  stood  on  a  giant  deck  and  mix'd 

my  breath 
With  a  loyal  people  shouting  a  battle  cry, 
Till  I  saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 
Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas 

of  death. 


Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I  wake  to  the  higher 

aims 
Of  a  land  that  has  lost  for  a  little  her 

lust  of  gold, 
And   love   of  a   peace  that  was  full  of 

wrongs  and  shames. 
Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be 

told; 


And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of  bat- 
tle unroU'd  ! 

Tho'  many  a  light  shall  darken,  and  many 
shall  weep 

For  those  that  are  crush'd  in  the  clash 
of  jarring  claims. 

Yet  God's  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak'd  on 
a  giant  liar ; 

And  many  a  darkness  into  the  light  shall 
leap. 

And  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splen- 
did names. 

And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the  sun, 

And  the  heart  of  a  people  beat  with  one 
desire  ; 

For  the  peace,  that  I  deem'd  no  peace,  is 
over  and  done, 

And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and 
the  Baltic  deep, 

And  deathful-grinning  mouths  of  the  for- 
tress, flames 

The  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a  heart 
of  fire. 


Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll 

down  like  a  wind. 
We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a  cause, 

we  are  noble  still, 
And  myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems, 

to  the  better  mind  ; 
It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good,  than  to 

rail  at  the  ill ; 
I  have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I  am 

one  with  my  kind, 
I  embrace  the  purpose  of  God  and  the 

doom  assign'd. 


THE   BROOK; 

AN    IDYL. 

"  Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted  ;  I  to 

the  East 
And  he  for  Italy  —  too  late  —  too  late  : 
One  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the  world 

despise  ; 
For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and 

share, 
And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for 

cent; 
Nor  could  he  understand  how  money 

breeds. 
Thought  it  a  dead  thing  ;   yet  himself 

could  make 
The  thing  that  is  not  as  the  thing  that  is. 


344 


THE  BROOK. 


0  had  he  lived  !     In  our  schoolbooks 

we  say, 
Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above  the 

crowd, 
They  flourish'd  then  or  then  ;  but  life  in 

him 
Could  scarce  be   said  to  flourish,  only 

touch' d 
On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 
When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a  mist  of 

green. 
And  nothing  perfect  :  yet  the  brook  he 

loved. 
For  which,   in    branding    summers  of 

Bengal, 
Orev'n  the  sweet  half- English  Neilgherry 

air 

1  panted,  seems,  as  I  re-listen  to  it. 
Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the  boy, 
To  me  that  loved  him  ;  for  '  0  brook,' 

he  says, 
'0  babbling  brook,'  says   Edmund  in 

his  rhyme, 
'  Whence  come  you  ? '   and  the  brook, 

why  not  ?  replies. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hem, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

"  Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite 

worn  out. 
Travelling  to  Naples.     There  is  Damley 

bridge, 
Ithasmoreivy;  there  the  river;  and  there 
Stands  Philip's  farm   where  brook  and 

river  meet. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 


And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

"But  Philip  chatter'd  more  than  brook 

or  bird  ; 
Old  Philip ;  allaboutthe  fields  you  caught 
His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the  dry 
High-elbow' d  grigs  that  leap  in  summer 

grass. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
Witli  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel. 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

"0  darling  Katie  Willows,  his  one 

child  ! 
A  maiden  of  our  century,  yet  most  meek ; 
A  daughter  of  our  meadows,  yet  not  coarse ; 
Straight,  but  as  lissome  as  a  hazel  w^d ; 
Her  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the 

shell 
Divides    threefold    to    show   the    fruit 

within. 

' '  Sweet  Katie,  once  I  did  her  a  good  turn. 
Her    and   her  far-ofi"    cousin    and    be- 
trothed, 
James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart 

with  her. 
For  here  I  came,  twenty  years  back  — 

the  week 
Before  I  parted  with  poor  Edmund  ;  crost 
By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in  ruins 

then. 
Still  makes  a  hoary  eyebrow  for  the  gleam 
Beyond   it,  where  the  waters  many  — 

crost. 
Whistling  a  random  bar  of  Bonny  Doon, 
And  push'd  at  Philip's  garden-gate.    The 
gate, 


THE   BROOK. 


345 


**  I  come  from  naunts  oi  coot  ana  nem, 
1  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern." 


Half-parted  from  a  weak  and  scolding 
hinge, 

Stuck ;  and  he  clamor'd  from  a  case- 
ment, '  run ' 

To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  below, 

*  Run,  Katie  ! '  Katie  never  ran  :  she 
moved 

To  me^t  me,  winding  under  woodbine 
bowers, 

A  little  flutter'd,  with  her  eyelids  down. 

Fresh  apple-blossom,  blushing  for  a  boon. 

"What  was  it?  less  of  sentiment  than 
sense 

Had  Katie  ;  not  illiterate  ;  nor  of  those 

Who  dabbling  iji  the  fount  of  Active 
tears. 

And  nursed  by  mealy -mouth'd  philan- 
thropies, 

Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate  the 
Deed. 


"She  told  me.     She  and  James  had 

quaiTell'd.     Why  ? 
What  cause  of  quarrel  ?  None,  she  said, 

no  cause  ; 
James  had  no  cause :  but  when  I  prest 

the  cause, 
I  learnt  that  James  had  flickering  jeal- 
ousies 
Which  anger'd  her.  Who  anger'd  James  ? 

I  said. 
But  Katie  suatch'd  her  eyes  at  once  from 

mine, 
And  sketching  with  her  slender  pointed 

foot 
Some  figure  like  a  wizard's  pentagram 
On  garden  gravel,  let  my  rjuery  pass 
Unclaim'd,    in   flushing   silence,    till    I 

ask'd 
If  James  were  coming.  'Oomingevery  day,' 
She  answcr'd,  '  ever  longing  to  explain, 
But  evermore  her  father  came  across 


346 


THE  BROOK. 


With  some  long-winded  tale,  and  broke 

him  short ; 
And  James  departed  vext  with  him  and 

her.' 
How  could  I  help  her  ?  *  Would  I  —  was 

it  wrong  ? ' 
( Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary  grace 
Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere  she 

spoke ) 
'  0  would  I  take  her  father  for  one  hour, 
For  one  haK-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to 

me  ! ' 
And  even  while  she  spoke,  I  saw  where 

James 
Made  toward  us,  like  a  wader  in  the 

surf. 
Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  inmeadow- 

sweet. 

"  0  Katie,  what  I  suffer'dforyoursake  ! 

For  in  I  went,  and  call'd  old  Philip  out 

To  show  the  farm  :  full  willingly  he  rose  : 

He  led  me  thro'  the  short  sweet-smelling 
lanes 

Of  his  wheat  snburb,  babbling  as  he  went. 

He  praised  his  land,  his  horses,  his 
machines ; 

He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his 
hogs,  his  dogs  ; 

He  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his  guinea- 
hens  ; 

His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  their  roofs 

Approved  him,  bowing  at  their  own  de- 
serts : 

Then  from  the  plaintive  mother's  teat  he 
took 

Her  blind  and  shuddering  pnppies,  nam- 
ing each. 

And  naming  those,  his  friends,  for  whom 
they  were  : 

Then  crost  the  common  into  Damley 
chase 

To  show  Sir  Arthur's  deer.  In  copse  and 
fern 

Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  tail. 

Then,  seated  on  a  serpent-rooted  beech, 

He  pointed  out  a  pasturing  colt,  and  said : 

'  That  was  the  four-year-old  I  sold  the 
Squire.' 

And  there  he  told  a  long  long-winded  tale 

Of  how  the  Squire  had  seen  the  colt  at 
grass, 

And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter 
wish'd. 

And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 

To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price 
he  ask'd. 


And  how  the  bailiff  swore  thathe  wasmad. 
But  he  stood  firm  ;  and  so  the  matter 

hung; 
He  gave  them  line  :  and  five  days  after 

that 
He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Who  then  and  there  had  offer'd  some- 
thing more, 
But  he  stood  firm  ;  and  so  the  matter 

hung; 
He  knew  the  man  ;  the  colt  would  fetch 

its  price  ; 
He  gave  them  line :   and  how  by  chance 

at  last 
(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot. 
The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  May) 
He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the  farm. 
And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew  him 

in, 
And  there  he  mellow'd  all  his  heart  with 

ale. 
Until  they  closed  a  bargain,  hand  in  hand. 

'  Then,  while  I  breathed  in  sight  of 
haven,  he. 
Poor  fellow,   could  he  help  it  ?  recom- 
menced, 
And  ran  thro'  all  the  coltish  chronicle. 
Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy,  Tallyho, 
Reform,  White  Rose,  Bellerophon,  the 

Jilt, 
Arbaces,  and  Phenomenon,  and  the  rest, 
Till,  not  to  die  a  listener,  I  arose. 
And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ;  and  so 
We  tum'd  our  foreheads  from  the  fiftUing 

sun, 
And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice  as 

long 
As  when  they  follow'd  us  from  Philip  s 

door. 
Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet  con- 
tent 
Re-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  things 
well. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance. 
Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses ; 


THE  BROOK. 


347 


'  I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Agoin^it  my  sandy  shallows." 


I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

Anil  out  again  I  curve  and  How 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Yes,  men  may  come  and  go  ;  and  these 

are  gone, 
All  gone.    My  dearest  brother,  Edmund, 

sleeps. 
Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic 

s[)ire, 
But  unfamiliar  Amo,  and  the  dome 
Of  Brunelleschi ;  sleeps  in  peace  :  and  he. 
Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of 

words 
Remains  the  lean  P.  \V.  on  his  tomb  : 
1  scrajHfd  the  lichen  from  it :  Katie  walks 
By  the  long  waeh  of  Australasian  seas 


Far  off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other 

stars, 
And  breathes  in  converse  seasons.     All 

are  gone." 

So  Lawrence  Aylmer,  seated  on  a  stile 
In  the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his  mind 
Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o'er  the 

brook 
A  tonsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn, 
Mused,  and  was  mute.     On  a  sudden  a 

low  breath 
Of  tender  air  made  tremble  in  the  hedge 
The  fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briony 

rings  ; 
And  he  look'd  up.    There  stood  a  maiden 

near. 
Waiting  to  p.ass.    1  n  much  amaze  he  stared 
On  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the 

shell 


«% 


348 


ODE   ON   THE  DEATH 


Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within : 
Then,  wondering,  ask'd  her  "Are  you 

from  the  farm  ? " 
"Yes"   answer'd  she.     "Pray   stay   a 

little  :  pardon  me  ; 
"What   do   they  call   you?"    "Katie." 

"That  were  strange. 
What  surname  ? "  "  Willows."    "  No  !  " 

"  That  is  my  name." 
"  Indeed  !  "  and  here  he  look'd  so  self- 

perplext, 
That  Katie laugh'd,  andlaughingblush'd, 

till  he 
Laugh'd  also,  but  as  one  before  he  wakes. 
Who  feels  a  glimmering  strangeness  in 

his  dream'. 
Then  looking  at  her  ;  "Too  happy,  fresh 

and  fair, 
Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world's  best 

bloom. 
To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your 

name 
About  these  meadows,  twenty  years  ago." 

"  Have  you  not  heard  ? "  said  Katie, 

"we  came  back. 
We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  before. 
Am  1  so  like  her  ?  so  they  said  on  bond. 
Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English  days, 
My  mother,   as  it  seems  you  did,   the 

days 
That  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come  with 

me. 
My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest-field  : 
But  she  —  you   will  be    welcome  —  0, 


THE    LETTEES. 


Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A  black  yew  gloom'd  the  stagnant  air, 
I  peer'd  athwart  the  chancel  pane 

And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 
A  clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A  band  of  pain  across  my  brow  ; 
"  Cold  altar.  Heaven  and  earth  shall  meet 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow." 


1  tum'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 
That  mock'd  the  wholesome  human 
heart, 

And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong. 
We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 


Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry  ; 

She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly  moved  ; 
1  saw  with  half-unt  onseious  eye 

bhe  wore  the  colors  1  approved. 


She  took  the  little  ivory  chest. 

With  half  a  sigh  she  tum'd  the  key. 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  comprest, 

And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 

My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could 
please  ; 
As  looks  a  father  on  the  things 

Of  his  dead  son,  I  look'd  on  these. 


She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said  ; 

I  raged  against  the  public  liar  ; 
She  talk'd  as  if  her  love  were  dead. 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 
"  No  more  of  love  ;  your  sex  is  known: 

I  never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I  trust  the  man  alone, 

The  woman  cannot  be  believed, 

V. 

"Thro'  slander,  meanest  spawn  of  Hell 

(And  women's  slander  is  the  worst), 
And  you,  whom  once  I  loved  so  well. 

Thro'  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst." 
I  spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 

I  shook  her  breast  with  vague  alarms — 
Like  torrents  from  a  mountain  source 

We  rush'd  into  each  other's  arms. 


We  parted  :  sweetly  gleam'd  the  stars, 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue, 
Low  breezes  fann'd  the  belfry  bars. 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I  drew. 
The  very  graves  appear'd  to  smile, 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow'd  swells  ; 
"Dark  porch,"  I  said,  "and  silent  aisle. 

There  comes  a  sound  of  marriage  bells." 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of   the  mourning  of  a 
mighty  nation, 


OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


349 


Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
WaiTiora  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we 

deplore  ? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wfoiight  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evennore. 


Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe. 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And  let  thesorrowingcrowdaboutitgrow. 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow  ; 

The  last  great  Eilglishman  is  low. 


Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last. 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
0  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute  : 
Mourn   for  the  man  of  long-enduring 

blood. 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  reso- 
lute. 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence. 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime. 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence. 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense. 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
0  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 

drew, 
0  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds 

that  blew  ! 
Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be 
seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done  : 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 


Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river. 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon' d  deeds. 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 

And  adeeperknell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 

roU'd 
Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 
And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his 

loss  ; 
He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 
For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom: 
When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame  ; 
With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  cap- 
tain taught 
The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame. 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 
0  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name. 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long. 
To  such  a  name. 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame. 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 


Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor'd 
guest. 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  sol- 
dier and  with  priest. 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking 
on  my  rest  ? 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  fa- 
mous man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes  ; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea  ; 

His  foes  were  thine  ;  he  kept  us  free  ; 

0  give  him  welcome,  this  is  ho 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites. 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee  ; 


r  ^' 


350 


ODE  ON   THE   DEATH 


For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 
He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 
Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  ; 
This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won  ; 
And  underneath  another  sun, 
"Warring  on  a  later  day, 
Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 
The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
Of  his  labor'd  rampart-lines. 
Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay. 
Whence  he  issued  forth  anew. 
And  ever  great  and  greater  gi"ew, 
Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 
Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms. 
Back  to  France  with  countless  blows. 
Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 
Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 
Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 
With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men. 
Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 
And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 
Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 
Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing 

wings, 
And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 
Tillonethat  sought  but  Dut)''siron  crown 
On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler 

down ; 
A  day  of  onsets  of  despair  ! 
Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam' d  themselves 

away  ; 
Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  ; 
Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 
And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and 

overthrew. 
So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world's-earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true. 
And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 
0  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 
0  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine. 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all. 
Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by 

thine  ! 
And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice. 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  thpy  rejoice 


At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 
AVith  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him. 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


A  people's  voice  !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all   men  else  their  nobler  dreams 

forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless 

Powers  ; 
Thank    Him   who    isled  us  here,    and 

roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming 

showers. 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the 

debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept 

it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  0  God,  from  brute  con- 
trol; 
0  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye, 

the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  ournoble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom 

sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne. 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 

springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  ourtemperate  kings  ; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march 

of  mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 

be  just. 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 

wall ; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever  ;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 
For  ever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who 

spoke ; 
Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 
Norpalter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power  ; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor 

flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and 

low  ; 
Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  ; 


OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


351 


Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  re- 
buke 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the 
right : 

Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred 
named ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
'  He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 
story. 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes. 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  pui-ples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story. 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands. 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands. 
Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has 

won 
His  path  upward,  and  pravail'd, 
Shall  find   the  toppling  crags  of  Duty 

scaled 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and 

sun. 
Such  was  he  :  his  work  is  done. 
But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman 

pure : 
Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory  : 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved 

from  shame 
For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  i;ivic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
Aud  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame. 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see  : 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung  : 

0  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 

brain 
Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 
Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gaiu  ! 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  see  not  we  revere, 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 
We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity. 
Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  aud  break,  and  work  their  will  ; 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers. 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours. 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 

trust. 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  peo- 
ple's ears  : 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are 

sobs  and  tears  : 
The  black  earth  yawns  :  the  mortal  dis- 
appears ; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 
He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great.  — 
Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  State, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 
Si)eak  no  more  of  liis  renown. 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down. 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 
185a. 


352 


THE   DAISY. 


THE  DAISY. 

WRITTEN   AT    EDINBURGH. 

0  LOVE,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine  ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine, 

"What  Roman  strength  Turbla  show'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road  ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters. 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue  ; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  milky-beU'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now    watching    high    on    mountain 
cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove. 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most. 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast ; 

But  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast. 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green  ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean  ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine. 

Where  oleanders  flush'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 

We  loved  that  hall,  tho'  white  and  cold. 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A  princely  people's  awful  princes. 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours. 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours  ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  CascinJ;, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 


In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter' d. 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggie,  rain  at  Parma  ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piaceuza,  rain. 

And  stem  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles  ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting. 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  0  the  chanting  quires. 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires. 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  tho 
glory  ! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires  ! 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues. 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flushed,  how  phantom-fair. 
Was  Monte  Rosa  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencill'd  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 

To  Como  ;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 

Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded  ;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray. 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way. 

Like  ballad-burden  music,  kept, 
As  on  The  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake. 

The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more  ?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew. 

But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  summit 
I  pluck'd  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me. 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

0  love,  we  two  .shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea  ; 


wnjj. 


353 


So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold  : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
"When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush' d  to  hard  and  day, 
This  nursling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by  : 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 
The  gloom   that   saddens   Heaven   and 
Earth, 
The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain. 

Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside  me, 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO   THE  REV.    F.    D.    MAURICE. 

Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ, 
God-father,  come  and  see  your  boy  : 

Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter, 
Making  the  little  one  leap  for  joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few. 
Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due. 
Should  eighty-thousand  college-coun- 
cils 
Thunder  "Anathema,"  friend,  at  you  ; 

Should  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right, 

Yet  one  lay-hearth  would  give  you 
welcome 
(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of  Wight ; 

Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of  town, 
I  watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 

All  round  a  careless-order'd  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 

You  '11  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine. 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine. 

And  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a  roof  of  pine  : 

For  groves  of  y)ine  on  either  hand, 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand  ; 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  breaker  on  chalk  and  sand  ; 

Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  Vjattle  slowly  creep, 

And  on  thro'  zones  of  light  and  shadow 
Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep, 

23 


We  might  disciiss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a  selfish  war  begin  ; 

Dispute     the     claims,     arrange     the 
chances ; 
Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win  : 

Or  whether  war's  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood  ; 

Till  you  should  turn  to  dearer  matters, 
Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God  ; 

How  best  to  help  the  slender  store, 
How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor  ; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances, 
Valor  and  charity  more  and  more. 

Come,  Maurice,  come  :  the  lawn  as  yet 
,Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy- wet ; 
But  when  the  wreath  of  March  has 
blossom' d, 
Crocus,  anemone,  violet. 

Or  later,  pay  one  visit  here, 

For  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear ; 

Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for  many, 
Many  and  many  a  happy  year. 

January,  1834. 

WILL. 


0  WKLL  for  him  whose  will  is  strong  ! 
He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long  ; 
He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong  : 
For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's  ran- 
dom mock. 
Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  confound, 
Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock, 
That,  conipass'd  round  with  turbulent 

sound, 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock. 
Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crowu'd. 


But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with 
time. 

Corrupts  the  strength  of  heaven  -  de- 
scended Will, 

And  ever  weaker  grows  thro'  acted  crime, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault. 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still  ! 

He  seetns  as  one  whose  footsteps  halt, 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand. 

And  o'er  a  weary,  sultry  land, 

Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault. 

Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill. 

The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 


354 


TIIR   CHARGE   OF   THE  LIGHT   BKIGADE, 


'  O  the  wikl  chnr^c  they  made  t 
All  the  world  wondered. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Fonvard,  the  Light  Brigade ! 
Charge  for  the  guns  !  "  he  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


"  Fonvard,  the  Light  Brigade 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd  ? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd : 
Theii-s  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 


Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

III. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well. 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundi-ed. 


Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash' d  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there. 
Charging  an  army,  while 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


355 


All  the  world  wonder'd  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  tliro'  the  line  they  broke  ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 


While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
Ail  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 


When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
0  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 


ENOCH  ARDEN, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a 

chasm  ; 
And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow 

sands ; 
Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a  narrow  wharf 
In  cluster ;  then  a  moulder'd  churcli ; 

and  higher 
A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower'd 

mill; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray  down 
With  Danish  barrows  ;  and  a  hazelwood, 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie  Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 
And  Philip  Ray  the  miller's  only  son, 
And  Enoch  Arden,  a  rough  sailor's  lad 
Made   orphan   by  a  winter  shipwreck, 

play'd 
Among  the  waste  andlumber  of  the  shore, 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing- 
nets, 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  -boats  up- 
drawn  ; 
And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand 
To  watch  them  overflow'd,  or  following 

up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 


A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff : 
In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping 

house. 
Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next, 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress  ;  but  at 

times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a  week  : 
' '  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife. " 
"Mine  too"  said  Philip  "turn  and  turn 

about"  : 
When,  if  they  quarrell'd,  Enoch  stron- 
ger-made 
Was  master  :  then  would   Philip,   his 

blue  eyes 
All  flooded  with  the  hel  pless  wrath  of  tears. 
Shriek  out  "  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and  at 

this 
The  little  wife  would  weep  for  company, 
And  pray  them  notto(iuarrel  forhersake. 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  childhood 

past. 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending 

sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his  heart 
Onthatoncgirl ;  and  Enoch  spoke  his  love. 
But  Philip  loved  in  silence  ;  and  the  girl 
Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to  him  ; 
But  she  loved  Enoch  ;tho'sheknew  itnot, 
And  would  if  ask'd  deny  it.     Enoch  set 
A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes, 
To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost. 


356 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a 

home 
For  Annie  :  and  so  prosper'd  that  at  last 
A  luckier  or  a  bolder  tisherman, 
A  carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 
I'or  leagues  along  that   breaker-beaten 

coast 
Than  Enoch.     Likewise  had  he  served  a 

year 
On   board   a   merchantman,    and  made 

himself 
Full  sailor  ;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd  a 

life 
From   the   dread   sweep   of   the   down- 
streaming  seas  : 
And  all  men  look'dupon  him  favorably  : 
And  ere  he  touch'd  his  one-and-twen- 

tieth  May 
He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made  a 

home 
For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  halfway  up 
The  narrow  street  that  clamber'd  toward 

the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  antumn  eventide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday, 
With   bag  and  sack  and   basket,  great 

and  small, 
Went  nutting  to  the  hazels.   Philip  stay'd 
(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 
An  hour  behind  ;  but  as  he  climb'd  the 

hill, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

liegan 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the  pair, 
Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-in-hand. 
His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten 

face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire. 
That  bum'd  as  on  an  altar.     Philip  look'd, 
And  in  theireyesand  facesread  his  doom  ; 
Then,  astheirfaces  drew  together,  groan'd. 
And  slipt  aside, and  like  a  wounded  life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood  ; 
There,  wliile  the  rest  were  loud  in  merry- 
making. 
Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose  and 

past 
Bearing  a  lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang 
the  bells. 

And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy 
years. 

Seven-happy  years  of  health  and  compe- 
tence, 

And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil  ; 


With  children  ;    first  a  daughter.      In 

him  woke, 
With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble 

wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost. 
And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  here ;   a  wish  re- 

new'd, 
When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 
The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 
While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful  seas, 
©r  often  journeying  landward  ;  for  in 

truth 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean- 
spoil 
In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-reddeu'd  with  a  thousand  winter 

gales, 
Not  only  to  the  market-cross  wereknown. 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down, 
Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp, 
And  peacoi  k-yewtree  of  the  lonely  Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  minister- 
ing. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things  hu- 
man change. 
Ten  milesto  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
Open'd  a  larger  haven  :  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or  sea  ; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering  on 

a  mast 
In  harbor,  bymischance  he  slipt  and  fell: 
A  limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted  him ; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his  wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one  : 
Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs  :   and  on 

him  fell, 
Altho'  agi'ave  andstaid  God-fearing  man, 
Yet  lyingthus inactive,  doubt  andgloom. 
Heseem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night, 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth, 
And  her,  he  loved,  a  beggar  :  then  he 

pray'd 
"  Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes 

to  me." 
And  while  he  pray'd,  the  master  of  that 

ship 
Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mis- 
chance. 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued 

him, 
Reporting  of  his  vessel  China  bound. 
And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.     Would 
he  go? 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


357 


There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she 

sail'd, 
Sail'd   from   this  port.     Would  Enoch 

have  the  place  ? 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it, 
Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance  ap- 
pear'd 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little  cloud 
Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  ofltog  :  yet  the 

wife  — 
When  he  was  gone  —  the   children  — 

what  to  do  ? 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his 

plans  ; 
To  sell  the  boat  —  and  yet  he  loved  her 

well  — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weather'd 

in  her ! 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  his 

horse  — 
And  yet  to  sell  her  —  then  with  what  she 

brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores  —  set  Annie  forth 

in  trade 
With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their 

wives  — 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he 

was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder  ? 

go 
This  voyage  more  than  once  ?  yea  twice 

or  thrice  — 
As  oft  as  needed  —  last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft, 
With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 
Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated, 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his  own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined  all : 
Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie 

pale. 
Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-bom. 
Forwanl  she  start«d  with  a  happy  cry. 
And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms  ; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his 

limbs. 
Appraised  his  weight  and  fondled  father- 
like. 
But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he  spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring 
had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his  will : 


Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear. 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  renew'd 
(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 
Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her. 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in 

vain  ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it 

thro*. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea- 
friend. 
Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and  set 

his  hand 
To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting-room 
With  shelf  and  comer  for  the  goods  and 

stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at  home, 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and 

axe. 
Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem'd  to  hear 
Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrill'd 

and  rang. 
Till  this  was   ended,    and  his  careful 

hand, — 
The  space  was  narrow,  —  liaving  order'd 

all 
Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature  packs 
Her  blossom  or   her  seedling,  paused ; 

and  he. 
Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to  the 

last, 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  mom. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of  fare- 
well 
Brightly  and  boldly.  All  his  Annie's  fears, 
Save,  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to 

him. 
Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave  God-fearing  man 
Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mystery 
Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man-in- 

God, 
Pray'd  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and  babes 
Whatever  came  to  him  :  and  then  he  said 
"  Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of  God 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  forme. 
For  I  'U  be   back,  my  girl,  before   you 

know  it." 
Then  lightly  rocking  baby's  cradle  "and 

lie, 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,  — 
Nay  —  for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for 
it  — 


358 


ENOCH  AEDEN. 


"  Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry. 
And  laid  tho  feeble  infant  in  his  arms." 


Go  J  bless  liim,  ho  shall  sit  upon  my 

kneos 
And  I  will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign 

parts, 
And  make  hira  meny,  when  I  come  home 

again. 
Come  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before!  go.'' 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  she 

heard, 
And  almost  hoped  herself  ;  but  when  he 

turu'd 
The  current  of  his  talk  to  ji^'aver  tliinfj.i 
1  n  sailor  fashion  roiighly  sermonizing 
Ou  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she 

heard, 


Heard  and  not  heard  him  ;  as  the  village 

girl, 
\Vlio  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the 

spring, 
JIusing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for 

her, 
Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  overflow. 

At  length  she  spoke  "0  Enoch,  you 
are  wise ; 
And  yet  for  all  j'our  ^nsdom  well  know  I 
That  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no  more. " 

"Well  then,"  said  Enoch,    "I  shall 
look  on  yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


359 


(He  named  the  day) ;  get  you  a  seaman's 

glass, 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your 

fears." 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments 

came, 
"  Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  he  comforted. 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  1  come  again, 
Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I  must  go. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me  ;  or  if  you  fear 
Cast  all  your  cares  on  God  ;  that  anchor 

holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning  ?  if  1  flee  to  these 
Can  I  go  from  Him  ?  and  the  sea  is  His, 
The  sea  is  His  :  He  made  it." 

Enoch  rose. 
Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  drooping 

wife, 
Andkiss'dhiswonder-stricken  littleones ; 
But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who 

slept 
After  a  night  of  feverous  wakefulness, 
When  Annie  wouldhave  raised  him  Enoch 

said 
"  Wake  him  not ;  let  him  sleep  ;  how 

should  the  child 
Remember  this  ? "  and  kiss'd  him  in  his 

cot. 
But  Annie  from  her  baby's  forehead  dipt 
A  tiny  curl,  and  gave  it :  this  he  kept 
Thro'  all  his  future;  but  now  hastily 

caught 
His  bundle,  wared  his  hand,  and  went 

his  way. 


She  when  the  day,  that  Enoch  men- 
tion'd,  came, 

Borrow'd  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain  :  perhaps 

She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her  eye ; 

Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremu- 
lous ; 

She  saw  him  not :  and  while  he  stood  on 
deck 

Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel  past. 

Ev'n  to  the  lastdipofthe  vanishingsail 
She  watch'd   it,  and  departed  weeping 

for  him  ; 
Then,  tho'  she  mourn'd  his  absence  as 

his  grave, 
Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with  his, 
But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being  bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 


By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less. 
And  still  foreboding  "  what  would  Enoch 

say?" 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  lor 

less 
Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what  she 

sold  : 
She  fail'd  and  sadden'd  knowing  it ;  and 

thus, 
Expectant  of  that  news  which  never  came, 
Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance. 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-bom 

and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  tho*  the  mother  cared  for  it 
With  all  a  mother's  care  :  nevertheless, 
Whether  her  business  often   call'd  her 

from  it. 
Or  thro'  the  want  of  what  it  needed  most. 
Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best  could 

tell 
What  most  it  needed  —  howsoe'er  it  was. 
After  a  lingering,  —  ere  she  was  aware,  — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie  bur- 
ied it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hunger'd  for 

her  peace 
(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look'd  upon 

her). 
Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so  long. 
"Surely"  said  Philip  "1  may  see  her 

now. 
May  be  some  little  comfort "  ;  therefore 

went. 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  in  fiont, 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door, 
Thenstnick  itthrice,  and,  nooneoi)eniiig, 
Enter'd;  but  Annie,  seated  with  her  grief, 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one. 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
But  tum'd  her  own  toward  the  wall  and 

wept. 
Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falteiingly 
"  Annie,  1  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 

He  spoke  ;  the  passion  in  her  moan'd 
re})ly 
"  Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am!"  halfabash'dhiin  ;  yet  miiisk'd, 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war. 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saying  to  her : 


360 


ENOCH  AEDEN. 


"I  came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he 

wish'd, 
Enoch,  your  husband  :  I  have  ever  said 
You  chose  the  best  among  us  —  a  strong 

man  : 
For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his  hand 
To  do  the  thing  he  will'd,  andboreit  thro'. 
And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary  way, 
And  leave  you  lonely  ?   not  to  see   the 

world  — 
For  pleasure  ?  —  nay,  but  for  the  where- 
withal 
To  give  his  babes  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been  or  yours  :  that  was 

his  wish. 
And  if  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 
To  find  the  precious  morning  hours  were 

lost. 
And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave, 
I  f  he  could  know  his  babes  were  running 

wild 
Like  colts  about  the  waste.     So,  Annie, 

now  — 
Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our 

lives  ? 
I  do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 
Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me  nay — 
For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes  again 
Why  then  he  shall  repay  me — if  you  will, 
Annie  —  for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 
Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school : 
This  is  the  favor  that  I  came  to  ask." 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against  the 

wall 
Answer'd  "I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face ; 
I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down. 
When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me 

down  ; 
And  now  1  think  your  kindness  breaks 

me  down  ; 
But  Enoch  lives ;  that  is  borae  in  on  me : 
He  will  repay  you  :  money  can  be  repaid  ; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours." 

And  Philip  ask'd 
"Then  you  will  let  me,  Anuie  ? " 

There  she  tum'd. 
She  rose,  and  fixt  her   swimming  eyes 

upon  him. 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly  face, 
Then  calling  down  a  blessing  on  his  head 
Caught  at  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  pas- 
sionately, 
And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 


Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 

school. 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and 

everyway. 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own. 
Made  himself  theirs ;  and  tho'  for  Annie's 

sake. 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port. 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish, 
And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet  he  sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and 

fruit, 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall. 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and 

then. 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the  meal 
To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the 

waste. 

But  Philip   did  not  fathom   Annie's 

mind : 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came 

upon  her. 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  gratitude 
Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him 

with. 
But  Philip  was  her  children's  all-in-all ; 
From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they  ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily  ; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were  they ; 
Worried  his  passive  ear  with  petty  wrongs 
Or  pleasures,    hung  upon   him,  play'd 

with  him 
And  call'd  him  Father  Philip.     Philip 

gain'd 
As  Enoch  lost ;  for  Enoch  seem'd  to  them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream. 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 
Going  we  know  not  where  :  and  so  ten 

years. 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native 

land, 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  chil- 
dren long'd 
To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 
And  Annie  would  go  with  them ;  then 

they  begg'd 
For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call'd  him)  too  : 
Him,  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom- 
dust, 
Blanch'd  with  his  mill,  they  found  ;  and 

saying  to  him 
' '  Come  with  us  Father  Philip  "  he  denied ; 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


361 


Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school, 
And  bought  them  needful  boolc&V 


But  when  the  children  pluck'd  at  him 

to  go, 
He  laugh'd,  and  jrielded  readily  to  their 

wLsh, 
For  was  not  Annie  with  them  ?  and  they 

went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  allherforce 
Fail'd  her;  and  sighing  "let  me  rest" 

she  said  : 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content ; 
While  all  theyounger  ones  with  jubilant 


Brokefromtheirelders,andtumultuonsly 
Down  thro'  the  whitening  hazels  made  a 

plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent 

or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the 

wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,  and  remember'd  one  dark 

hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded 

life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow  :  at  last  he  said 


V|362 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


Lifting  his  honest  forehead    "  Listen, 

Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in  the 

wood. 
Tired,  Annie  ? "  for  she  did  not  speak 

a  word. 
"  Tired  ? "  but  her  face  had  fall'n  upon  her 

hands ; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in  him, 
"The  ship  was  lost "  he  said  " the  ship 

was  lost ! 
No  more  of  that !  why  should  you  kill 

yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite  ? "    And 

Annie  said 
"  I  thought  not  of  it :  but  —  I  know  not 

why  — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary." 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer 

spoke. 
"  Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind, 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long, 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came 

there, 
I  know  that  it  will  out  at  last.    0  Annie, 
It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance. 
That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be  living;  well  then  —  let 

me  speak  : 
I  grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting  help  : 
I  cannot  help  you  as  I  wish  to  do 
Unless  —  they  say  that  women  are  so 

quick  — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have 

you  know  — 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.    I  fain  would  prove 
A  father  to  your  children  :  I  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father  :  I  am  sure 
That  1  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine  own  ; 
And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fast  my  wife, 
That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  years. 
We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God  grants 
To  any  of  His  creatures.    Think  upon  it : 
For  I  am  well-to-do  —  no  kin,  no  care. 
No  burden,  save  my  care  for  you  and 

yours  : 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our 

lives. 
And  I  have  loved  you  longer  than  you 

know." 

Then  answer'd  Annie  ;  tenderly  she 

spoke  : 
"  You  have  been  as  God's  good  angel  in 

our  house. 
God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  youfor  it. 


Philip,  with  something  happier  than  my- 
self. 
Can  once  love  twice?  can  you  be  ever  loved 
As  Enoch  was  ?  what  is  it  that  you  ask  ? " 
"I   am  content"  he  answer'd  "to   be 

loved 
A  little  after  Enoch."     "  0  "  she  cried 
Scared  as  it  were  "dear  Philip,  wait  a 

while  : 
If  Enoch  comes — but  Enoch  will  not 

come  — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long  : 
Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year  : 

0  wait  a  little  ! "  Philip  sad'ly  said 
"Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

1  well  may  wait  a  little. "    ' '  Nay  "  she  cried 
"I  am  bound  :  you  have  my  promise  — 

in  a  year  : 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide 

mine  ?" 
And  Philip  answer'd  "  I  will  bide  my 

year." 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Philip  glan- 
cing up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 
Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  overhead  ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie 

rose. 
And  sent  his   voice  beneath  him  thro' 

the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their 

spoil ; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  there 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave  his 

hand, 
Saying  gently  "Annie,  when  I  spoke  to 

you, 
That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.     I  was 

wrong. 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are 

free." 
Then  Annie  weeping  answer'd    "  I  am 

bound." 

She  spoke  ;  and  in  one  moment  as  it 

were. 
While  yet  she  went  about  her  household 

ways, 
Ev'n  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest  woi-ds, 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she 

knew. 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flash'd  again. 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before  her 

face. 
Claiming  her  promise.     "  Is  it  a  year  ? " 

she  ask'd. 


ENOCH   ARDEX. 


363 


"Yes,  if  the  nuts"  he  said  "be  ripe  again : 
Come  out  and  see."     But  she  —  she  put 

him  off  — 
So  much  to  look  to  —  such  a  change — a 

month  — 
Give  her  a  month  —  she  knew  that  she 

was  bound  — 
A  month  —  no  more.     Then  Philip  with 

his  eyes 
Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
*'  Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take  your 

own  time." 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of 

him  ; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long-sufferance, 
Till  half-another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost. 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle 

with  her  ; 
Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw  him  on ; 
And  others  laugh'd  at  her  and  Philip  too. 
As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own 

minds ; 
And  one,  iu  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.   Her  own 

son 
Was  silent,  tho'  he  often  look'd  his  wish ; 
But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon 

her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  jjoverty  ; 
And  Philip's  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan  ;  and  all  these  things 

fell  on  her 
Sharp  as  reproach. 

Atlastonenightitchanced 
That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  earnestly 
Pray'dforasign  "my  Enoch  is  he  gone?" 
Then  compass'd  round  by  the  blind  wall 

of  night 
Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her 

heart. 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a 

light, 
Then  desiwrately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign. 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 
"  Under  the  palm-tree."   That  was  noth- 
ing to  her :  I 


No  meaning  there  :  she  closed  the  Book 

and  slept ; 
When  lo  !  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height. 
Under  a  palm-tree,  over  him  the  Sun  : 
"He  is  gone"  she  thought  "he  is  happy, 

he  is  singing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest :  yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these  be 

palms 
Whereof  the  happy  people  strewing  cried 
'  Hosanna  in  the  highest  ! ' "     Here  she 

woke, 
Resolved,  sent  for  liim  and  said  wildly 

to  him 
"There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not 

wed." 
"Then  for  God's    sake,"  he   answer' d, 

"  both  our  sakes, 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang 

the  bells, 
Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were  wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 
A  footstep  seem'd  to  fall  beside  her  path. 
She  knew  not  whence  ;  a  whisper  on  her 

ear. 
She  knew  not  what ;  nor  loved  she  to  be 

left 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventiired  out  alone. 
AVhat  ail'd  her  then,  that  ere  she  enter'd, 

often 
Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the  latch, 
Fearing  to  enter  :    Philip  thought   he 

knew : 
Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common  to 

her  state. 
Being  with  child  :  but  when  her  child 

was  born, 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself  renew'd, 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her 

heart. 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all, 
And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly  died. 

And  where  was  Enoch  ?    prosperously 
sail'd 
Tlie  ship  "  Good  Fortune,"  tho'  at  set- 
ting forth 
The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward, 

shook 
And  almost  ovcrwhelm'd  her,  yet  unvext 
She  slijit  across  the  summer  of  the  world, 
Tiien  after  a  long  tumble  about  the  Cape 
An<l  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and  fair, 
Slie  passing  thro' the  summer  worldrtg:iin. 
The  breath  of  heaven  came  continually 


364 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


■  By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port. 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost, 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong.' 


And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden  isles, 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and 

bought 
Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those 

times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  home-voyage  :  at  first 
indeed 
Thro'  many  a  fair  sea-circle,  day  by  day. 
Scarce-rocking,    her  full-busted  figure- 
head 


Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  from 
her  bows : 

Then  foUow'd  calms,  and  then  winds 
variable, 

Then  bafiling,  a  long  course  of  them ; 
and  last 

Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moon- 
less heavens 

Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  "  breakers"  came 

The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 

But  Enoch  and  two  others.  Half  the 
night, 

Buoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken 
spars, 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


365 


These  drifted,    stranding  on  an  isle  at 

morn 
Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  sustenance 
Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,and  nourish- 
ing roots  ; 
Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 
The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was  tame. 
There   in   a  seaward-gazing   mountain- 
gorge 
They  built,  and  thatch'd  with  leaves  of 

palm,  a  hut, 
Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.      So  the 

three. 
Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness. 
Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more 
than  boy. 

Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and 
wreck, 

Lay  lingering  out  a  five-years'  death- 
in-life. 

They  could  not  leave  him.  After  he 
was  gone. 

The  two  remaining  found  a  fallen  stem  ; 

And  Enoch's  comrade,  carelessof  himself, 

Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion,  fell 

Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 

In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God's  warn- 
ing "wait." 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak, 

the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways 

to  Heaven, 
The  slender  coco's  di'ooping  crown   of 

plumes. 
The  ligntning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil'd  around   the   stately  stems, 

and  ran 
Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glowg 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world. 
All  these  he  saw  ;  but  what  he  fain  had 

seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face. 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean- 
fowl, 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the 

reef. 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that 

branch'd 
And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave, 


As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day 

long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward -gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail : 
No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  preci- 
pices ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead  ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 
Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  them- 
selves in  Heaven, 
Tlie  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise — but  no  sail. 

There  often  as  he  watch'd  or  seem'd 

to  watch. 
So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused, 
A  phantom   made   of  many  phantoms 

moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  himself 
Moved    haunting   people,     things    and 

places,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line  ; 
The  babes,    their  babble,    Annie,    the 

small  house. 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy 

lanes. 
The  peacock -yewtree and  the  lonely  Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold,  the 

chill 
November  dawns    and  de^vy-glooming 

downs. 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying 

leaves. 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color'd  seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  hisears, 
Tho'  faintly,  merrily — far  and  faraway — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  jiarish  Iwlls ; 
Then,  tho'  he  Knew  not  wherefore,  start- 
ed up 
Shuddering,    and  when  the  beauteous 

hateful  isle 
Retum'd  upon  him,  had  not  his  poorheart 
Spoken  with  That,  which  being  every- 
where 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem 

all  alone, 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and 

went 
Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see  his 

own. 


366 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields, 
Not  yet  had  perish' d,  when  his  lonely 

doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.  Another  ship 
(She  wanted  water)    blown    by  baffling 

winds, 
Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  destined 

coui-se, 
Stay'd  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where 

she  lay  : 
For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early  dawn 
Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen  isle 
The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills, 
They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst  away 
In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  till'd 

the  shores 
With    clamor.       Downward    from    his 

mountain  gorge 
Stept  the  long-hair'd  long-bearded  soli- 
tary. 
Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely 

clad. 
Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it 

seem'd, 
With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making  signs 
They  knew  not  what :   and  yet  he  led 

the  way 
To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water  i-an  ; 
And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 
And  heard  them  talking,  his  long-bounden 

tongue 
Was  loosen'd,  till  he  made  them  under- 
stand ; 
Whom,  when  their  casks  were  fill'd  they 

took  aboard  : 
And  there  the  tale  he  utter'd  brokenly, 
Scarce-credited  atfirstbutmoreand  more, 
Amazed  and  melted  all  wholisten'd  to  it : 
And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  pas- 
sage home ; 
Butofthework'damongtherestandshook 
His  isol.ition  from  him.     None  of  these 
Came  from  his  county,  or  could  answer 

him. 
If  question' d,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to 

know. 
And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long  delays. 
The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy  ;  but  ever- 
more 
His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 
Returning,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 
He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his  blood 
Drew  in  the  dewy  meado\Ary  morning- 
breath 
Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly  wall : 
And  that  same  morning  officers  and  men 
Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 


Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it : 
Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed 

him, 
Ev'n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail'd  be- 
fore. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  anyone. 
But  homeward  —  home  —  what  home  ? 

had  he  a  home  ? 
His  home,  he  walk'd.     Bright  was  that 

afternoon. 
Sunny  but  chill ;  till  drawn  thro'  either 

chasm, 
Where  either  haven  open'd  on  the  deeps, 
RoU'd  a  sea-haze  and  whelm'd  the  world 

in  gray  ; 
Cut  oif  the  length  of  highway  on  before. 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and 

right 
Of  wither'd  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  Kobin  piped 
Disconsolate,  and  thro'  the  dripping  haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it 

down  : 
Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the  gloom ; 
Last,  as  it  seem'd,  a  great  mist-blotted 

light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the 

place. 

Then   down  the  long  street  having 

slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 
His  eyes  uj)on  the  stones,  he  reach'd  the 

home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and 

his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were 

born  ; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur 

there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleam'd  thro'  the  drizzle) 

crept 
Still  downward  thinking  "  dead  or  dead 

to  me  ! " 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  whaif 

he  went, 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  froyt  of  timber-erost  antiquity. 
So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old. 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone  ;  but  he 

was  gone 
Who  kept  it ;   and  his  widow,   Miriam 

Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the 

house  ; 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


367 


Ahaimt  of  brawlingseamen  once,  butnow 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering  men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  gar- 
rulous, 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port. 
Not  knowing  —  Enoch  was  so  brown,  so 

bow'd, 
So  broken  —  all  the  story  of  his  house. 
His  baby's  death,  her  growing  poverty, 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school. 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her, 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the 

birth 
Of  Philip's  child  :  and  o'er  his  counte- 
nance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion  :  anyone. 
Regarding,  well  had  deem'd  he  felt  the  tale 
Less  than  the  teller  :  only  when  she  closed 
"  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and 

lost " 
He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically. 
Repeated    muttering    "  cast    away  and 

lost"  ; 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers  "lost ! " 

But  Enoch yearn'dtoseeherfaceagain ; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."     So  the 

thought 
Haunted  and  harass'd  him,  and  drove 

him  forth. 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below  ; 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon 

him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light. 
Far-blazing  from   the  rear  of  Philip's 

house. 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the 

street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward ;  butl)ehind, 
"With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the 

waste, 
Flourish'd  a  little  garden  square  and 

waird  : 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtrce,  ami  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 


But  Enoch  shunn'd  the  middle  walk  and 

stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew ;  and 

thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shunn'd, 

if  griefs 
Like  his  have  woree  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish'd 

board 
Sparkled  and  shone  ;  so  genial  was  the 

hearth  : 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times. 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his babeacrosshisknees ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted 

hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear'd  his  creasy 

arms. 
Caught  at  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they 

laugh'd  : 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he 

saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her 

babe, 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with 

him, 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and 

strong, 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for 

he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life 

beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the 

babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee, 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  hap- 
piness. 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place, 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's 

love,  — 
Then  he,  tho'  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him 

all, 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than 

things  heard, 
Stagger'd  and  shook,  holding  the  branch, 

and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of 

doom. 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the 

hearth. 


368 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  un- 
derfoot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and 

be  found, 
Crept  to  thegate,  andopen'dit,  andclosed. 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door, 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but 
that  his  knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  pray'd. 

"  Too  hard  to  bear  !  why  did  they  take 

me  thence  ? 
0  God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle, 
Uphold  me,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  little  longer  !  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 
My  children  too  !  must  1  not  speak  to 

these  ? 
They  know  me  not.     I  should  betray 

myself. 
Never  :  no  father's  kiss  for  me — the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son." 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature 

fail'd  a  little. 
And  he  lay  tranced  ;  but  when  he  rose 

and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again. 
All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he 

went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain. 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burden  of  a  song, 
"  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know." 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.  His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the  will. 
And  beating  up  thro'  all  the  bitter  world. 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea. 
Kept  him  a  living  soul.     "  This  miller's 

wife  " 
He  said  to  Miriam  "  that  you  told  me  of, 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband 

lives  ? " 
"  Ay,  ay,  poor  soul" said  Miriam,  "fear 

enow  ! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him 

dead. 
Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort "  ;  and 

he  thought 


"After  the  Lord  has  call'd  me  she  shall 

know, 
I  wait  His  time  "  and  Enoch  set  himself, 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to  live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  his  hand. 
Cooperhe  was  and  car]ienter,  and  wrought 
To   make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  or 

help'd 
At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 
That  brought  the  stinted  commerce  of 

those  days  ; 
Thus  earn'd  a  scanty  living  for  himself : 
Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself. 
Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life 

in  it 
Whereby  the  man  could  live ;  and  as  the 

year 
RoU'd  itself  round  again  to  meet  the  day 
When  Enoch  hadretum'd,  a  languor  came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do  no 

more. 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last 

his  bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheerfully. 
For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded 

wreck 
See  thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting  squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  ap- 
proach 
To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close  of  all. 

For  thro'  that  dawning  gleam'd  a  kind- 
lier hope 
On  Enoch  thinking  ' '  after  I  am  gone. 
Then  may  she  learn  I  loved  her  to  the 

last." 
He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said 
"  Woman,  1  have  a  secret—  only  swear, 
Before  I  tell  you  —  swear  upon  the  book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead." 
' '  Dead  "  clamor'd  the  good  woman  ' '  hear 

him  talk  ! 
I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  you 

round." 
"Swear"  added  Enoch  sternly  "on  the 

book." 
And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miiiam 

swore. 
Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon  her, 
"Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this 

town  ? " 
"Know  him?"  she  said  "I  knew  .him 

far  away. 
Ay,  ay,   I  mind  him  coming  down  the 

street ; 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


369 


"  Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain. 
As  tlio'  it  were  tiie  burden  of  a  sonjf, 
'  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know.* 


Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no 

man,  he." 
Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer'd  her  ; 
"  His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares  for 

him. 
I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to  live ; 
1  am  the  man."  At  which  the  womangave 
A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 
"You  Arden,  you  !  nay,  — sure  he  was 

a  foot 
Ifigher  than  you  he."    Enoch  said  again 
"  Aly  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  wliat 

I  am  ; 
My  giief  and  solitude  have  broken  me  ; 
Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 


Who  married  —  but  that  name  has  twice 

been  changed  — 
I  married  her  who  married  Philip  Kay. 
Sit,  listen."     Then  he  told  her  of  his 

voyage, 
Hiswreck,  hislonelylife,  hiscomingback, 
His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve. 
And  how  he  kept  it.  As  the  woman  heard. 
Fast  (low'd  the  current  of  her  easy  tears, 
While   in   her  heart  she  yeam'd  inces- 
santly 
To  nish  abroad  all  round  the  little  haven, 
Proclaiming  Enoch  Arden  and  his  wo<'s  ; 
But  awed  and  promisa-bouudeu  she  for- 
bore. 


370 


AYLMEK  S   FIELD. 


Saying  only  "See  your  bairns  before  you 

go! 
Eh,  let  me  fetch  'em,  Arden,"  and  arose 
Eager  to  bringthem  down,  for  Enoch  hung 
A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  replied. 

"  Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the 

last, 
But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 
Sit  down  again  ;  mark  me  and  understand. 
While  I  have  power  to  speak.     I  charge 

you  now, 
When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I 

died 
Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving  her  ; 
S.ave  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving  her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my  own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I  saw 
So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying 

for  her. 
And  tell  my  son  that  I  died  blessing  him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him  too  ; 
He  never  meant  us  anything  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me  dead, 
Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them 

come, 
lam  their  father  ;  hut  she  must  not  come, 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after- 
life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my  blood. 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to-be  : 
This  hair  is  his  :  she  cut  it  off  and  gave  it. 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these 

years. 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my 

grave  ; 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  shall 

see  him. 
My  babe  in  bliss  :  wherefore  when  I  am 

gone. 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort 

her  : 
It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her. 
That  1  am  lie." 

He  ceased  ;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising 

all,        / 
That  once  again  he  roll'd  his  eyes  upon 

her 
Repeating  all  he  wish'd,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this, 
While  Enoch  slumber'd  motionless  and 
pale, 


And  Miriam  watch'd  and  dozed  at  inter- 
vals. 

There  came  so  loud  a  calling  of  the  sea. 

That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 

He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms 
abroad 

Ciying  with  a  loud  voice  "a  sail !  a  sail ! 

I  am  saved  "  ;  and  so  fell  back  and  spoke 
no  more. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port 
Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  funeral. 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 
1793. 

Dust  are  our  frames  ;  and,  gilded  dust, 

our  pride 
Looksonly  for  a  moment  whole  and  sound; 
Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king, 
Found  lying  with  his  urnsand  ornaments, 
Which  at   a  touch  of  light,  an  air  of 

heaven, 
Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no  more. 

Here  is  a  story  which  in  rougher  shape 
Came  from  a  grizzled  cripple,  whom  I  saw 
Sunning  himself  in  a  waste  field  alone  — 
Old,  and  a  mine  of  memories  —  who  had 

served. 
Long  since,  a  bygone  Rector  of  the  place, 
And  been  himself  a  part  of  what  he  told. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  that  almighty 

man. 
The  county  God  —  in  whose  capacious 

hall, 
Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  family 

tree 
Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate 

king  — 
Whose  blazing  wyvem  weathercock'd  the 

spire, 
Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing'dhisentry- 

gates 
And   swang  besides  on  many  a  windy 

sign  — 
Whose  eyes  from  under  a  pyramidal  head 
Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save  his 

own  — 
What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than  her, 
His  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he  loved 
As  heiress  and  not  heir  regi-etfully  ? 
But  "he  that  marries  her  marries  her 

name  " 


aylmer's  field. 


371 


Aylmer  Hall. 


This  fiat  somewhat  soothed  himself  and 

wife. 
His  wife  a  faded  beauty  of  the  Baths, 
In.sipid  as  the  Queen  upon  a  card  ; 
Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly 

more 
Tlian  his  own  shadow  in  a  sickly  sun. 

A  land  of  hops  and  poppy -mingled  com. 
Little  about  it  stirring  save  a  brook  ! 
A  sleepy  land  where  under  the  same  wheel 
The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by 

year ; 
Where   almost  all   the  village  had  one 

name  ; 
Where  Aylmer  follow'd  Aylmer  at  the 

Hall 
And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Rectory 
Thrice  over  ;  so  that  Rectory  and  Hall, 
Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy. 


Were  open  to  each  other  ;  tho'  to  dream 
That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well 

had  made 
The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle  up 
With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard 

his  priest 
Preach  an  inverted  scripture,  sons  of  men 
Daughters  of  God  ;  so  sleepy  was  the 

land. 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will'd 
it  so, 

Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range 
of  roofs, 

Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree  ? 

There  was  an  Aylnier-Averill  marriage 
once. 

When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than  itself. 

And  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lancas- 
ter's, 


372 


AYLMER  S  FIELD. 


"With  wounded  peace  which  each  had 

prick'd  to  death. 
"  Notproven  "  Averill  said,  or  laughingly 
"  Some  other  race  of  Averills  "  —  prov'n 

or  no, 
What  cared  he  ?  what,  if  other  or  the 

same  ? 
He  lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  himself. 
But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 
With  Averill,  and  a  year  or  two  before 
Call'd  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call'd  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neighbor- 
hood, 
Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith, 

claim 
A  distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  hearing  him . 

Sanguine  he  was  :  a  but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut-bloom 
Flamed  in  his  cheek  ;  and  eager  eyes,  that 

still 
Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful, 

beam'd, 
Beneath  a  manelike  mass  of  rolling  gold. 
Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they  dwelt 

on  hers, 
Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect  else. 
But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood. 
Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the  less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro. 
We   know  not  wherefore  ;   bounteously 

made. 
And  yet  so  finely,  that  a  troublous  touch 
Thinn'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in  a 

day, 
A  joj-ous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the 

first. 
Leolin's  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after, 

hei-s  : 
So  much  the  boy  foreran  ;  but  when  his 

date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  playmates, 

he 
(Since  Averill  was  a  decade  and  a  half 
His  elder,  and  their  parentsunderground) 
Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite,  and 

roU'd 
His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her  dipt 
Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone 

swing. 
Made   blossom-ball   or  daisy-chain,  ar- 
ranged 
Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept  it 

green 
In  living  ktters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 


Show'd  lier  the  fairy  footings  on  the 

grass. 
The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms. 
The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy  pines, 
Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look'd  a  flight  of  fairy  arrows  aim'd 
All   at   one  mark,  all  hitting :   make- 
believes 
For  Edith  and  himself :  or  else  he  forged, 
But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon,  wreck, 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and  true 

love 
Crown'd  after  trial;  sketches  rude  and 

faint. 
But  where  a  passion  yet  unborn  perhaps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 
And  thus  together,  save  for  college-times 
Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a  couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang. 
Or  Heav'n  in  lavish  bounty  moulded, 

grew. 
And  more  and  more,  the  maiden  woman- 
grown. 
He  wasted  hours  with  Averill ;  there, 

when  fii-st 
The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 
Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 
That   soon   should   wear  the  garland ; 

there  again 
When  buiT  and    bine  were  gather'd ; 

lastly  there 
At  Christmas  ;  ever  welcome  at  the  Hall, 
On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide  of 

youth 
Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  cheering 

even 
My  lady  ;  and  the  Baronet  yet  had  laid 
No  bar  between  them  :   dull  and  self- 
involved. 
Tall  and  erect,  but  bendingfromhisheight 
With   half-allowing  smiles  for   all  the 

world. 
And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main  —  his 

pride 
Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  his  ring  — 
He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 
Would  care  no  more  for  Leolin's  walking 

with  her 
Thau  for  his  old  Newfoundland's,  when 

they  ran 
To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he  rose 
Twofooted  at  the  limit  of  his  chain, 
Roaringto  make  a  third  :  and  how  should 
Love, 


AYLMER  S  HELD. 


373 


Whom  the  cross-lightnings  of  four  chance- 
met  eyes 
Flash  into  liery  life  from  nothing,  follow 
Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  ? 
Seldom,  but  when  he  does.  Master  of  all. 

So  these  young  hearts  not  knowing 

that  they  loved, 
Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a  bar 
Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken 

ring 
Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 
Wander'd  at  will,  but  oft  accompanied 
By  Averill :  his,  a  brother's  love,  that 

hung 
With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o'er  her 

peace. 
Might  have  been  other,  save  for  Leolin's — 
who  knows  ?  but  so  they  wander'd,  hour 

by  hour 
Gather'd  the  blossom  that  rebloom'd,  and 

drank 
The  magic  cup  that  fiU'd  itself  anew. 

A  whisper  half  reveal'd  her  to  herself. 
For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the 

brook 
Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a  silence,  ran 
By  sallowy  rims,  arose  the  laborers'  homes, 
A  frequent  haunt  of  Edith,  on  low  knolls 
That  dimpling  died  into  each  other,  huts 
At  random  scatter'd,  each  a  nest  in  bloom. 
Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had 

wrought 
About  them  :  here  was  one  that,  sum- 

mer-blanch'd. 
Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller's- 
joy 
In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad  ;  and  here 
The  warm -blue  breathings  of  a  hidden 

hearth 
Broke  from  a  bower  of  vine  and  honey- 
suckle : 
One  look'd  all  rosetree,  and  another  wore 
A  close-set  robe  ofjasmine  sown  with  stars: 
This  had  a  rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 
Alwut  it ;  this,  a  milky-way  on  earth, 
Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer's 

heavens, 
A  lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors  ; 
One,  almost  to  the  martin-haunted  eaves 
A  summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhocks  ; 
Each,    its    own    charm ;    and    Edith's 

everywhere  ; 
And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him. 
He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her  poor : 
For  she  —  so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving. 


Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal  hand 
Rose  from  the  clay  it  work'd  in  as  she  past. 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  passing 

by, 

Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a  height 
That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a  voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor 

roofs  • 

Revered  as  theirs,  but    kindlier    than 

themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy,  —  was  adored  ; 
He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself.    Agrasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the 

heart, 
A  childly  way  with  children,  and  a  laugh 
Ringing  like  proven  golden  coinage  true. 
Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy  realm. 
Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side,  the 

girl> 
Nursing  a  child,  and  turning  to   the 

warmth 
The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby-soles, 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whisper 

"  Bless, 
God  bless  'em  :  marriages  are  made  in 

Heaven." 

A  flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear'd  it  to 

her. 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  unannounced 
With  half  a  score  of  swarthy  faces  came. 
His  own,  tho' keen  and  bold  and  soldierly, 
Sear'd  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not  fair  ; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a  tongue  that  ruled  the 

hour, 
Tho*  seeming  boastful  :  so  when  first  he 

dash'd 
Into  the  chronicle  of  a  deedful  day. 
Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 
Of  patron  "  Good  !  my  lady's  kinsman  f 

good  ! " 
My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock'd. 
And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen  :  unawares  they  flitted  ofl". 
Busying  themselves  about  the  flowerage 
That  stood  from  out  a  stiff  brocade  in 

which, 
The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  .she, 
Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago. 
Slept  thro'  the  stately  minuet  of  those 

days  : 
But  Edith's  eager  fancy  hurried  with  him 
Snatch'd  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of  his 

life: 


374 


aylmer's  field. 


Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye 
Hated  him  with  a  momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was  he : 
I  know  not,  forhe  spoke  not,  only  shower'd 
His  oriental  gifts  on  every  one 
And  most  on  Edith  :  likeastormhe  came, 
And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a  storm 
he  went. 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  llow'd  and  ebb'd  uncertain,  to  return 
When  others  had  been  tested)  there  was 

one, 
A  dagger,  in  rich  sheath  with  jewels  on  it 
Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that  branch'd 

itself 
Fine  as  ice-fems  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a  breath.     I  know  not  whence 

at  first, 
Nor  of  whatrace,  the  work ;  biit  as  he  told 
The  story,  storming  a  hill-fort  of  thieves 
He  got  it ;  for  their  captain  after  fight. 
His   comrades  having  fought  their  last 

below, 
Was  climbing  up  the  valley  ;  at  whom 

he  shot : 
Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which 

he  clung 
Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet. 
This  dagger  with  him,  which  when  now 

admired 
By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to  please. 
At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to  her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  after  he  was  gone, 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly  : 
And  when  she  show'd  the  wealthy  scab- 
bard, saying 
"Look  what  a  lovely  piece  of  workman- 
ship ! " 
Slight  was  his  answer  "Well  —  I  care 

not  for  it  "  ; 
Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick'd 

his  hand, 
"  A  gracious  gift  to  give  a  lady,  this  !  " 
"  But  would  it  be  more  gracious  "  ask'd 

the  girl 
"  Were  I  to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 
That  is  no  lady  1  "     "  Gracious  ?     No  " 

said  he. 
"  Me  ?  —  but  I  cared  not  for  it.     0  par- 
don me, 
I  seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself." 
"Take  it"  she  added  sweetly  "  tho'  his 

gift; 
For  I  am  more  ungracious  ev'n  than  you, 
I  care  not  for  it  either"  ;  and  he  said 


"Why  then  I  love  it"  :  but  Sir  Aylmer 

past. 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing  he 

heard. 

The  next  day  came  a  neighbor.   Blues 

and  reds 
They  talk'd  of :  blues  were  sure  of  it,  he 

thought : 
Then  of  the  latest  fox  —  where  started  — 

kill'd 
In  such  a  bottom  :  "  Peter  had  the  brush, 
MyPeter,first" :  anddidSirAylmerknow 
That  great  pock-pitten  fellow  had  been 

caught  ? 
Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to 

hand, 
And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance  of  it 
Between  his  palms  a  moment  up  and 

down  — 
"The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were 

warm  upon  him  ; 
We  have  him  now  "  :  and  had  Sir  Ayl- 

mer  heard  — 
Nay,  but  lie  must  —  the  land  was  ring- 
ing of  it  — 
This  blacksmith-border  maniage  —  one 

they  knew  — 
Eaw  from  the  nursery  —  who  could  trust 

a  child  ? 
That  cursed  France  with  her  egalities  ! 
And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially  * 

With  Hearing  chair  and  lower' d  accent) 

think  — 
For  people  talk'd  —  that  it  was  wholly 

wise 
To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill  walk 
So  freely   with   his   daughter  ?    people 

talk'd  — 
The  boy  might  get  a  notion  into  him  ; 
The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she  knew. 
Sir  Aylmer    Aylmer    slowly   stiffening 

spoke  : 
"  The  girl  and  boy.  Sir,  know  their  dif- 
ferences !  " 
"  Good  "  said  his  friend  "but  watch  !  " 

and  he  ' ' enough. 
More  than  enough.  Sir  !     I  can  guard 

my  own." 
They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer   Aylmer 

watch'd. 

Pale,  foron  her  the  thunders  of  the  house 
Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  same 

night ; 
Pale  as  the  Jephtha's  daughter,  a  rough 

piece 


aylmer's  field. 


375 


Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which 
Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  to  that 
Which  Leolin  open'd,  she  cast  back  upon 

him 
A  piteous  glance,  and  vanish'd.  He,  asone 
Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected  storm, 
And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets, 
Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the  House 
On  eitherside  the  hearth,  indignant;  her, 
Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a  featherfan. 
Him  glaring,  by  his  own   stale   devil 

spurr'd. 
And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breathing 

hard. 
"Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base, 
Presumptuous  !  trusted  as  he  was  with 

her. 
The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth,  their 

lands. 
The  last  remaining  pillar  of  their  house. 
The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient  name. 
Their  child."      "Our  child!"     "Our 

heiress  !  "  "  Ours  !  "  for  still. 
Like  echoes  from  beyond  a  hollow,  came 
Her  sicklier  iteration.     Last  he  said 
"Boy,  mark  me  !  for  your  fortunes  are 

to  make. 
I  swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out  of 

mine. 
Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised  on 

her, 
Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget  heraelf, 
Swerve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and  us  — 
Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem'd  impossible, 
Far  as  we  track  ourselves  —  I  say  that 

this  — 
Else  I  withdraw  favor  and  countenance 
From  you  and  yours  for  ever  —  shall  you 

do. 
Sir,  when  you  see  her  —  but  you  shall 

not  see  her  — 
No,  you  shall  write,  and  not  to  her,  but 

me  : 
And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken 

with  me. 
And  after  look'd  into  yourself,  you  find 
That  you  meant   nothing  —  as  indeed 

you  know 
That  you  meant  nothing.  Such  a  match 

as  this  ! 
Impossible,    prodigious  !  "    These   were 

words. 
As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself. 
Arguing   Ixjundless   forbearauce  :    after 

which. 
And  Leolin's  horror-stricken  answer,  "I 
So  foul  a  traitor  to  myself  and  her, 


Never  0  never,"  for  alwut  as  long 

As  the   wind-hover  hangs   in   balance, 

paused 
Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from   the   storm 

within. 
Then  broke  all  bonds  of  couitesy,  and 

crying 
"Boy,  should  I  find  you  by  my  doors 

again. 
My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like  a 

dog  ; 
Hence  ! "  with  a  sudden  execration  drove 
The  footstool  from  before  him,  and  arose ; 
So,    stammering    "scoundrel"    out   of 

teeth  that  ground 
As  in  a  dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin  still 
Retreated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old  man 
Follow'd,  and  under  his  own  lintel  stood 
Storming  with  lifted  hands,  a  hoary  face 
Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth, 

but  now. 
Beneath  a  pale  and  unimpassion'd  moon, 
Vext  with  unworthy  madness,  and  de- 

form'd. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful  eye 
That  watch'd  him,  till  he  heard  the  pon- 
derous door 
Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro' 

the  land. 
Went  Leolin;  then, his  passionsallin  flood 
And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 
Down   thro'   the    bright  lawns   to   his 

brother's  ran, 
And  foam'd  away  his  heart  at  Averill's 

ear  : 
Whom    Averill    solaced  as  he   might, 

amazed  : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  father's, 

friend  : 
He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen  it 

long  ; 
He    must    have    known,    himself   had 

known  :  besides. 
He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter  forth 
Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the  west. 
Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves  be 

sold. 
Some   one,  he   thouglit,   had  slander'd 

Leolin  to  him. 
"Brother,  for  I  have  loved  you  more  as  son 
Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you  :  I  myself — 
What  is  their  ])retty  saying  ?  jilted,  is  it  f 
Jilted  1  was  :  I  say  it  for  your  m-ace. 
Pain'd, and,  as  bearingi  11  myself  the  shame 
The  woman  should  have  borne,  humili- 
ated, 


376 


AYLMER  S   FIELD. 


I  lived  for  years  a  stunted  sunless  life  ; 
Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 
Watching  your  growth,  I  seeni'd  again 

to  grow. 
Leolin,  I  almost  sin  in  envying  you  : 
The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 
Loves  you  :    I   know  her :    the  worst 

thought  she  has 
Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand  : 
She  must  prove  true  :  for,  brother,  where 

two  fight 
The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love 

are  strength, 
And  you  are  happy  :  let  her  parents  be." 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon 
them  — 

Insolent,  brainless,  heartless  !  heiress, 
wealth. 

Their  wealth,  their  heiress  !  wealth 
enough  was  theirs 

For  twenty  matches.  Were  helord  of  this. 

Why  twenty  boys  and  girls  should  marry 
on  it. 

And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and  him- 
self 

Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.  He  be- 
lieved 

This  filthy  marriage-hindering  Mammon 
made 

The  harlot  of  the  cities  :  nature  crost 

Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 

That  saturate  soul  with  body.  Name, 
too  !  name. 

Their  ancient  name  !  they  might  be 
proud  ;  its  worth 

Was  being  Edith's.  Ah  how  pale  she 
had  look'd 

Darling,  to-night  !  they  must  have  rated 
her 

Beyond  all  tolerance.  These  old  pheas- 
ant-lords, 

These  partridge-breeders  of  a  thousand 
years. 

Who  had  mildew'd  in  their  thousands, 
doing  nothing 

Since  Egbert  —  why,  the  greater  their 
disgrace  ! 

Fall  back  upon  aname  !  rest,  rot  in  that ! 

Not  keep  it  noble,  make  it  nobler  ?  fools. 

With  such  a  vantage-ground  for  noble- 
ness ! 

He  had  known  a  man,  a  quintessence  of 
man. 

The  life  of  all  —  who  madly  loved  — and 
he, 

Thwarted  by  one  of  these  old  father-fools, 


Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an  end. 
He  would  not  do  it !  her  sweet  face  and 

faith 
Held  him  from  that ;  but  he  had  powers, 

he  knew  it : 
Back  wouldhe  to  his  studies,  makeaname. 
Name,  fortune  too  :  the  world  should  ring 

of  him 
To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in  their 

graves  : 
Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would  he 

be  — 
"  0  brother,  I  am  grieved  to  learn  your 

grief — 
Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my 

say." 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own 

excess. 
And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own. 
He  laugh' d  ;  and  then  was  mute  ;   but 

presently 
Wept  like  a  storm  :  and  honest  Averill 

seeing 
How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen, 

fetch' d 
His  richest  beeswing  from  a  binn  reserved 
For  banquets,   praised  the  waning  red, 

and  told 
The  vintage  —  when  this  Aylmer  came 

of  age  — 
Then  drank  and  past  it ;  till  at  length 

the  two, 
Tho'  Leolin  flamed  and  fell  again,  agreed 
That  much  allowance  must  be  made  for 

men. 
After  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier  glow 
Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose  held. 

Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers 

met, 
A  perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
That  darken' d  all  the  northward  of  her 

Hall. 
Him,  to  her  meek   and  modest  bosom 

prest 
In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force. 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alterher: 
He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go, 
Labor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 
In  such  a  sunlight  of  jirosperity 
He  should  not  be  rejected.     "Write  to 

me  ! 
They  loved  me,  and  because  I  love  their 

child 
They  hate  me  :  there  is  war  between  us, 

dear. 


aylmer's  field. 


377 


Which  breaks  all  bonds  but  ours ;  we 

must  remain 
Sacred  to  one  another."   So  they  talk'd, 
Poor  children,  for  their  comfort :  the  wind 

blew  ; 
The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own  bitter 

tears. 
Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven, 

mixt 
Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss'd  each  other 
In  darkness,  and  above  them  roar'd  the 

pine. 

So  Leolin  went ;  and  as  we  task  our- 
selves 
To  learn  a  language  known  but  smatter- 

ingly 
In  phrases  here  and  thereat  random,  toil'd 
Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our  law, 
That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent. 
That  wilderness  of  single  instances. 
Thro'  which  a  few,  by  wit  or  fortune  led. 
May  beat  a  pathway  out  to  wealth  and 

fame. 
The  jests,  that  flash'd  about  the  pleader's 

room. 
Lightning  of  the  hour,   the  pun,  the 

scurrilous  tale,  — 
Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades 

deep 
In  other  scandals  that  have  lived  and  died. 
And   left  the  living  scandal  that  shall 

die  — 
Were  dead  to  him  already  ;  bent  as  he  was 
To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong  in 

hopes. 
And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he, 
Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine,  and  exercise. 
Except  when  for  a  breathing-while  at  eve. 
Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour,  he  ran 
lieside  the  river-bank  :  and  then  indeed 
Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands 

of  power 
Were  bloodier,  and  the  according  hearts 

of  men 
Seem'd  harder  too ;  but  the  soft  river- 
breeze, 
Which  fann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival 

rose 
Yet  fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 
His  former   talks   with  Edith,  on   him 

breathed 
Far  purelicr  in  his  nishings  to  and  fro, 
Afterhis books,  toflushhis  blood  with  air, 
Then  to   his   books  again.     My  lady's 

cousin, 
Half-sickeningof  hispension'd  afternoon,  ' 


Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or  twice. 
Ran  a  Malayan  muck  against  the  tunes. 
Had  golden   hopes  for   France   and  all 

mankind. 
Answer' d  all  queries  touching  those  at 

home 
With  a  heaved  shoulder  and  a  saucy  smile, 
And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the  world, 
And  air'd  him  there :  his  nearer  friend 

would  say 
"  Screw  not  the  chord  too  sharply  lest  it 

snap." 
Then  left  alone  he  pluck'd  her  dagger  forth 
From  where  his  worldless  heart  had  kept 

it  warm, 
Kissing  his  vows  upon  it  like  a  knight. 
And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk'd  of 

him 
Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise  : 
For  heart,  1  think,  help'd  head  :  her  let- 
ters too, 
Tho'  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like  broken  music,  written  as  she  found 
Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly  watch'd, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till 

he  saw 
An  end,  ahope,  alight  breakingupon  him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into  flesh, 
Her  worldly- wise  begetters,  plagued  them- 
selves 
To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her 

good. 
Whatever  eldest -born  of  rank  or  wealth 
Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him  they 

lured 
Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the  baits 
Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo. 
So  month  by  month  the  noise  about  their 

doors, 
And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  banquets, 

made 
The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent  hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.     All  in  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  return'd 
Leolin's  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 
Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  down  the  wind 
With  rumor,  and  became  in  other  fields 
A  mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale. 
And  laughter  to  their  lords  :  but  those 

at  home. 
As  hunters  round  a  hunted  creature  draw 
The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward  tho 

death, 
Narrow'd  her  goings  out  and  comings  in  ; 
Forbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 


378 


aylmer's  field. 


Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier 

farms, 
Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the  poor 
They  barr'd  her  :   yet  she  bore  it :  yet 

her  cheek 
Kept  color  :  wondrous  !  but,  0  mystery  ! 
What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that  old 

oak. 
So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a  part 
Falling   had  let  appear    the   brand   of 

John  — 
Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a  tree, 

but  now 
The  broken  base  of  a  black  tower,  a  cave 
Of  touchwood,  with  a  single  fiourisliing 

spray. 
There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 
Eakingin  that  millennial  touchwood-dust 
Found  for  himself  a  bitter  treasure-trove ; 
Burst  his  own  wyvern  on  the  seal,  and 

read 
"Writhing  a  letter  from  his  child,  for  which 
Came  at  the  moment  Leolin's  emissary, 
A  crippled  lad,  and  coming  turn'd  to  fly. 
But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and  halter 

gave 
To  him  that  fluster'd  his  poor  parish  wits 
The  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore 

besides 
To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 
Nor  let  them  know  themselves  betray'd  ; 

and  then. 
Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him, 

went 
Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miserable. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a  despot 

dream 
The  father  panting  woke,  and  oft,  as  dawn 
Aroused  the  black  republic  on  his  elms, 
Sweeping  the  frothfly  from  the   fescue 

brush'd 
Thro'  the  dim  meadow  toward  his  treas- 
ure-trove. 
Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady,  — 

who  made 
A  downward  crescent  of  her  minion  mouth. 
Listless  in  all  despondence,  — read ;  and 

tore. 
As  if  the  living  passion  symbol'd  there 
Were  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent ;  and 

burnt. 
Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self  defied. 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks 

of  scorn 
In  babyisms,  and  dear  diininutives 
Scatter'd  all  over  the  vocabulary 


Of  such  a  love  as  like  a  chidden  child, 
After  much  wailing,  hiish'd  itself  at  last 
Hopeless  of  answer  :  then  tho'  Averill 

wrote 
And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain 

himself — 
All  would  be  well — the  lover  heeded  ret, 
But  passionately  restless  came  and  went, 
And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the  place. 
There  by  a  keeper  shot  at,  slightly  hurt. 
Raging  return'd  :  nor  was  it  well  for  her 
Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of 

pines, 
Watch'd  even  there  ;  and  one  was  set  to 

watch 
The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watch'd 

them  all. 
Yet  bitterer  from   his  readings  :   once 

indeed, 
Warm'd  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride 

in  her. 
She  look'd  so  sweet,  he  kiss'd  her  tenderly 
Not  knowing  what  possess'd  him  :  that 

one  kiss 
Was  Leolin's  one  strong  rival  upon  earth ; 
Seconded,  for  my  lady  foUow'd  suit, 
Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose  :  and  then 

ensued 
A  Martin's  summer  of  his  faded  love, 
Or  ordeal  by  kindness  ;  after  this 
He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a  sneer ; 
The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acrimo- 
nies : 
Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly  word : 
So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from  all 
Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 
With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly 

lost 
Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on  life. 
Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round  to  spy 
The  weakness  of  a  people  or  a  house, 
Like  flies  that  haunt  a  wound,  or  deer, 

or  men. 
Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hurt  — 
Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him  —  found 

the  girl 
And  flung  her  down  upon  a  couch  of  fire. 
Where  careless  ofthe  household  faces  near, 
And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 
She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer, 

past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light :  may  soul 

to  soul 
Strike  thro'  a  finer  element  of  her  own  ? 
So,  —  from  afar,  —  touch  as  at  once  ?  or 

why 


aylmer's  field. 


379 


That  night,    that   moment,    when    she 

named  his  name. 
Did  the  keen  shriek  "yes  love,  yes  Edith, 

yes," 

Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers 

woke. 
And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from  sleep, 
With  a  weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and 

trembling. 
His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into  flames. 
His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit, 
And  his  long  arms  stretch'd  as  to  grasp 

a  flyer : 
Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made  the 

cry; 
And  being  much  befool'd  and  idioted 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.     The  second  day, 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 
A  breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from  home. 
Found  a  dead  man,  a  letter  edged  with 

death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  himself 
Gave  Edith,  redden'd  with  no  bandit's 

blood  : 
' '  From  Edith  "  was  engraven  on  the  blade. 

Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon  his 

death. 
And  when  he  came  again,  his  flock  be- 
lieved — 
Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not 

Time's 
Had  blasted  him  —  that  many  thousand 

days 
Were  dipt  by  horror  from  his  term  of  life. 
Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second  death 
Scarce  touch'd  her  thro'  that  nearness 

of  the  first. 
And  being  used  to  find  her  pastor  texts. 
Sent  to  the  harrow'd  brother,  praying  him 
To  speak  before  the  people  of  her  child. 
And  fixt  the  Sabbath.    Darkly  that  day 

rose  : 
Autumn's  mock  sunshine  of  the  faded 

woods 
Was  all  the  life  of  it ;  for  hard  on  the.se, 
A  breathless  burden  of  low-folded  heavens 
Stifled  and  chill'd  at  once :  but  every  roof 
Sent  out  a  listener  :  many  too  had  known 
Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  and  since 
The  i)arents  harshness  and  the  hapless 

loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  murmur'd, 

left 
Their  own  gray  tower,   or  plain-faced 

tabernacle, 


To  hear  him  ;  all  in  mourning  these, 
and  those 

With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon,  glove 

Or  kerchief ;  while  the  church,  —  one 
night,  except 

For  greenish  glimmerings  thro'  the  lan- 
cets, —  made 

Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  who 
tower'd 

Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either 
grave. 

Long  o'er  his  bent   brows   linger'd 

Averill, 
His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from  which 
Livid  he  pluck'd  it  forth,  and  labor'd  thro' 
His  brief  prayer- prelude,  gave  the  verse 

"  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ! " 
But  lapsed  into  so  long  a  pause  again 
As  half  amazed  half  frighted  all  his  flock  : 
Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness  of 

grief 
Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash'd  his  angry 

heart 
Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became  one 

sea. 
Which  rollingo'erthepalaces  of  the  proud, 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living 

God  — 
Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a  purer 

world  — 
When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake, 

thunder,  wrought 
Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idolatries. 
Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 
Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven  of 

Heavens, 
And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as  the 

Highest  ? 
"Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy 

brute  Baiil, 
And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself, 
For  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou  clothed 

thy  God. 
Then  came  a  Lord  in  no  wise  like  to  Baiil. 
The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.    Surely  now 
The  wil(lerne.s.s  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Crown  thyself,  worm,  and  worship  thine 

own  lusts  !  — 
No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel  to  — 
Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 
And  princely  halls,  and  fann.s,  and  flow- 
ing lawns. 


380 


aylmer's  field. 


And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily  grow, 
And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heraldries. 
In  such  a  shape  dost  thoubeliold  thy  God. 
Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him  ;  for 

thine 
Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a  hair 
Ruffled  tipon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 
The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 
Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot  die ; 
And  tho'  thou  numberest  with  the  fol- 
lowers 
Of  One  who  cried  '  leave  all  and  follow 

me.' 
Thee  therefore  with  His  light  about  thy 

feet, 
y:    Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine 

ears, 
Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord 

from  Heaven, 
Bom  of  a  village  girl,  carpenter's  son, 
Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the  Mighty 

God, 
Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the  two  ; 
Crueller  :  as  not  passing  thro'  the  fire 
Bodies,    but    souls  —  thy  children's  — 

thro'  the  smoke, 
The  blight  of  low  desires  —  darkening 

thine  own 
To  thine  own  likeness  ;  or  if  one  of  these, 
Thy  better  born  unhappily  from  thee. 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight  and 

fair  — 
Friends,  I  was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a  one 
By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sorrow 

for  her  — 
Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well. 
Fairer  than  Ruth  amongthe  fieldsof  corn, 
Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  '  hail '  she 

seem'd, 
Who  entering  fill'd  the  house  with  sud- 
den light. 
For  so  mine  own  was  brighten'd  :  where 

indeed 
The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of  Heaven 
Dawn'd   sometime   thro'  the  doorway  ? 

whose  the  babe 
Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  en  her  lap, 
Warm'd  at  her  bosom  ?     The  poor  child 

of  shame. 
The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared  for, 

leapt 
To  greet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten  heart, 
As  with  the  mother  he  had  never  known, 
In  gambols  ;  for  her  fresh  and  innocent 

eyes 
Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their  blue, 
That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 


Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they  saw 

her. 
Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysterious 

way 
Thro'  the  seal'd  ear  to  which  a  louder  one 
Was  all  but  silence  —  free  of  alms  her 

hand  — 
The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage-walls 

with  flowers 
Has  often  toil'd  to  clothe  your  little  ones ; 
How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man's  brow 
Cool'd  it,  or  laid  his  feverish  pillow  smooth ! 
Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  it  not  ? 
One  burden  and  she  would  not  lighten  it  ? 
One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe  * 
Or  when  some  heat  of  diflerence  sparkled 

out. 
How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between 

your  wraths. 
And  steal  you  from  each  other  !  for  she 

walk'd 
Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of 

love. 
Who  still'd  the  rolling  wave  of  Galilee  ! 
And  one  —  of  him  I  was  not  bid  to  speak  — 
Was  always  with  her,  whom  you  also  knew. 
Him  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy  love. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first ; 
They  might  have  been  together  till  the 

last. 
Friends,  this  frail  bark  of  ours,  when 

sorely  tried. 
May  wreck  itself  without  the  pilot's  guilt, 
Without  the  captain's  knowledge  :  hope 

with  me. 
Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  went  hence 

with  shame  ? 
Nor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  both  of  these 
I  cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow'd  walls, 
'  My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate.'  " 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers  wept ; 

but  some, 
Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowns  than 

those 
That  knit  themselves  for  summer  shadow, 

scowl'd 
At  their  great  lord.     He,  when  it  seem'd 

he  saw 
No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar,  but 

fork'd 
Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  hishead, 
Sat  anger-charm'd  from  sorrow,  soldier- 
like. 
Erect :  but  when  the  preacher's  cadence 

flow'd 
Softening  thro'  all  the  gentle  attributes 


aylmer's  field. 


381 


Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd 

his  face, 
Paled  at  a  sudden  twitch  of  his  iron  mouth  ; 
And  "  0  pray  God  that  he  hold  up  "  she 

thought 
"Or  surely   I  shall  shame  myself  and 
him." 

"  Nor  yours  the  blame  —  for  who  be- 
side your  hearths 
Can  take  her  place — if  echoingme  you  cry 
'  Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  ! ' 
But  thou,  0  thou  that  killest,  hadst  thou 

known, 
0  thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  under- 
stood 
The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace  and 

ours  ! 
Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that  calls 
Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  waste  'Re- 
pent '  ? 
Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow  way, 
Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in  the 

broad 
Cries    *  come  up  hither,*  as   a  prophet 

to  us  ? 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and 

rock  ? 
Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify  — 
No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  lire  ? 
Yes,  as  yourmoanings  witness,  andmyself 
Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my  loss. 
Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past  your 

prayers. 
Not  past  the  living  fount  of  pity  in 

Heaven. 
But  I  that  thought  myself  long-suffering, 

meek, 
Exceeding  'poor  in   spirit*  —  how  the 

words 
Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves,  and 

mean 
Vileness,    we  are  grown   so  proud  —  I 

wish'd  my  voice 
A  rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 
To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro'  the  world — 
Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 
To  inflame  the  tribes  :  but  there  —  out 

yonder  —  earth 
Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell  —  0 

tliere 
The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry  — 
The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall  so  fast. 
They  cling  together  in  the  ghastly  sack  — 
The  land  all  shambles — naked  marriages 
Flash  from  the  bridge,  andever-murder'd 
France, 


By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gathering 

wolf, 
Runs  in  a  river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 
Is  this  a  time  to  madden  madness  then  ? 
Was  this  a  time  for  these  to  flaunt  their 

pride  ? 
May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as  dense 

as  those 
Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  people's 

eyes 
Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great 

sin  from  all ! 
Doubtless  our  narrow  world  must  canvass 

it: 

0  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them, 
Who  thro'  their  own  desire  accomplish'd 

bring 
Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the 

grave  — 
Who  broke  the  bond  which  they  desired 

to  break. 
Which  else  had  link'd  their  race  with  times 

to  come — 
Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her  purity. 
Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter's 

good  — 
Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they  did, 

but  sat 
Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daughter's 

death  ! 
May  not  that  earthly  chastisement  suffice  ? 
Have  not  our  love  and  reverence   left 

them  bare  ? 
Will  not  another  take  their  heritage  ? 
Will  there  be  children's  laughter  in  their 

hall 
For  ever  and  for  ever,  or  one  stone 
Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a  light  thing 
That  I  their  guest,  their  host,  their  an- 
cient friend, 

1  made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my  race 
Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as  cried 
Christ  ere  His  agony  to  those  that  swore 
Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and  made 
Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew  the 

Lord, 
And  left  their  memories  a  world's  curse 

—  '  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate '  ? " 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook'd  no 
more  : 

Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorse- 
lessly, 

Her  crampt-up  sorrow  pain'd  her,  and  a 
sense 

Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 


382 


SEA  DREAMS. 


Then  their  eyes  vext  her  ;  for  on  entering 
He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat 

aside  — 
Black  velvet  of  the  costliest —  she  herself 
Had  seen  to  that  :  fain  had  she  closed 

them  now, 
Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near'd 
Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when  she 

laid, 
Wifelike,  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he  veil'd 
His  face  with  the  other,  and  at  once,  as 

falls 
A  creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The   woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and 

swoon'd. 
Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the  nave 
Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  meagre 

face 
Seam'd  with  the  shallow  cares  of  fifty 

years  : 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape 

round 
Ev'n  to  his  last  horizon,  and  of  all 
Who  peer'dat  him  so  keenly,  foUow'd  out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Keel'd,  as  a  footsore  ox  in  crowded  ways 
Stumbling  across  the  market  to  his  death, 
Uupitied  ;  for  he  groped  as  blind,  and 

seem'd 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  pews 
Andoakenfinialstill  he  touch'd  the  door ; 
Yet  to  the  lychgate,  where  his  chariot 

stood. 
Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erect  again . 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the  gate 
Save  under  pall  with  bearers.     In  one 

month. 
Thro'  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours. 
The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her 

child  ; 
And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his  house 
About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the 

change. 
And  those  fixt  eyes  of  painted  ancestors 
Staring  for  ever  from  their  gilded  walls 
On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own 

head 
Began  to  droop,  to  fall ;  the  man  became 
Imbecile ;  his  one  word  was  "desolate  " ; 
Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death  was 

he; 
But  when   the  second  Christmas  came, 

escaped 
His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he  felt. 
To  find  a  deeper  in  the  narrow  gloom 
By  wife  and  child  ;  nor  wanted  at  his  end 


The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 

At  golden  thresholds  ;  nor  from  tender 

hearts, 
And  those  who  sorrow'd  o'er  a  vanish'd 

race, 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 
Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken 

down. 
And  the  broad  woodland  parcell'd  into 

farms  ; 
And  where  the  two  contrived  their  daugh- 
ter's good, 
Lies  the  hawk's  cast,  the  mole  has  made 

his  run. 
The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plantain 

bores. 
The  rabbit  fondles  his  own  harmless  face, 
The   slow-worm    creeps,    and   the  thin 

weasel  there 
Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open  field. 


SEA  DREAMS. 

A  CITY  clerk,  but  gently  born  and  bred ; 
His   wife,  an  unknown   artist's  orohan 

child  — 
One  babe  was  theirs,  a  Margaret,  three 

years  old  : 
They,  thinking  that  her  clear  germander 

eye 
Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city -gloom. 
Came,  with  a  month's  leave  given  them, 

to  the  sea  : 
For  which  his  gains  were  dock'd,  however 

small : 
Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his  work  ; 

besides. 
Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for  the 

man 
Had  risk'd  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift. 
Trembled  in  perilous  jilaces  o'er  a  deep  : 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 
Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credu- 

lousness. 
And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which  lured 

him,  rogue. 
To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian 

mine. 
Now    seaward-bound    for    health  they 

gain'd  a  coast. 
All  sand  and  cliff  and   deep-inrunning 

cave. 
At  close  of  day  ;  slept,  woke,  and  went 

the  next, 
The  Sabbath,    pious  variers  from  the 

church, 


SEA  DREAJHS. 


383 


To  chapel ;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer, 
Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple 

men, 
Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  fulmi- 
nated 
Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her  creed : 
For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms,  and 

shriek'd 
"Thus,  thus  with  violence,"  ev'n  as  if 

he  held 
The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  himself 
Were   that  great  Angel;    "Thus   with 

violence 
Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea  ; 
Then   conies   the    close."     The   gentle- 
hearted  wife 
Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a  world  ; 
Heathisown  :  but  when  the  wordy  storm 
Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced 

the  shore. 
Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing  caves. 
Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce 

believed 
(The  sootflake  of  so  many  a  summer  still 
Clung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw, 

the  sea. 
So  now  on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now 

on  cliir, 
Lingeringabout  the  thymy  promontories. 
Till  all  the  sails   were  darkeu'd  in  the 

west. 
And  rosed  in  the  east :  then  homeward 

and  to  bed  : 
Where  she,  who  kept  a  tender  Christian 

hope 
Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 
Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 
"Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your 

wrath," 
Said,  "  Love,  forgive  him"  :  but  he  did 

not  speak  ; 
And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the  wife, 
Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died  for 

all, 
And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men, 
And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their 

feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a  full 
tide 

Rose  with  giound-swell,  which,  on  the 
foremost  rocks 

Touching,  upjetted  in  spirts  of  wild  sea- 
smoke, 

And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam, 
and  fell 

In  vast  sea-cataracts  —  ever  and  anon 


Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the 

cliffs 
Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.    At  this  the 

babe. 
Their  Margaret  cradled  near  them,  wail'd 

and  woke 
The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly  cried, 
"  A  wreck,  a  wreck  ! "  then  tiu'n'd,  and 

groaning  said, 

"  Forgive  !    How  many  will  say,  '  for- 
give,' and  find 
A  sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 
To  hate  a  little  longer  !     No  ;  the  sin 
That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well  for- 
give, 
Hjrpocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once. 
Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughtsare  best  ? 
Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  riper 

first? 
Too  ripe,  too  late  !  they  come  too  late  for 

use. 
Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  and 

beast 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their 

foes  :   • 
And  such  a  sense,  when  first  I  fronted 

him. 
Said,  '  trust  him  not '  ;  but  after,  when  I 

came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him 

less  ; 
Fought  with  what  seem'd  my  own  un- 

charity  ; 
Sat  at  his  table  ;  drank  his  costly  wines  ; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his 

talk; 
Went  further,  fool !  and  trusted  him  with 

all, 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen  years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork  :  there  is  no  such 

mine. 
None ;  butagulfof  ruin,  swallowinggold. 
Not  making.     Ruin'd  !  ruin'd  !  the  sea 

roars 
Ruin  :  a  fearful  night ! " 

"Not  fearful ;  fair," 
Said   the  good  wife,   "if  every  star  in 

hoaven 
Can  make  it  fair  :  you  do  but  hear  the 

tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams  ? " 

"O  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  di-eam'd 
Of  such  a  tide  swelling  toward  the  land. 
And  I  from  out  the  boundless  outer  deep 


384 


SEA   DREAMS. 


Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter'd 

one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run.  beneath  the 

cliffs. 
I  thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless 

deep 
Bore  through  the  cave,  and  I  was  heaved 

upon  it 
In  darkness  :  then  I  saw  one  lovely  star 
Larger  and  larger,     'What  a  world,'  I 

thought, 
'  To  live  in  ! '  but  in  moving  on  I  found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave, 
Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream  be- 

j'ond  : 
And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat. 
All  over  earthy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 
A  pickaxe  in  her  hand  :  then  out  I  slipt 
Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that 

sings  : 
And  here  the  night  -  light  flickering  in 

my  eyes 
Awoke  me." 

"That  was  then  your  dream,"  she  said, 
"Not  sad,  but  sweet." 

"So  sweet,  I  lay,"  said  he, 
"And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the 

stream 
In  fancy,  till  I  slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision  ;  for  I  dream'dthat  still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me  on, 
And  that  the  woman  walk'd  upon  the 

brink  : 
I  wonder'd  at  her  strength,  and  ask'd  her 

of  it: 
'It  came,'  she  said,  'by  working  in  the 

mines '  : 
0  then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I  thought ; 
And  ask'd ;  but  not  a  word  ;  she  shook 

her  head. 
And  then  the  motion  of  the  current  ceased, 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder  ;  and  we 

reach'd 
A  mountain,  like  a  wall  of  burrs  and 

thorns ; 
But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the  steep 

hill 
Trod  out  a  path  :  I  follow'd  ;  and  at  top 
She  pointed  seaward  :   there  a  fleet  of 

glass. 
That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  jewels  under  me. 
Sailing  along  before  a  gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thunder, 

past 


In  sunshine  :  right  across  its  track  there 

lay, 
Down  in  the  water,  a  long  reef  of  gold. 
Or  what  seem'd  gold  :  and  I  was  glad  at 

first 
To  think  that  in  our  often -ransack'd  world 
Still  so  much  gold  was  left ;  and  then  I 

fear'd 
Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splinter 

on  it. 
And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn  them 

off; 
An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 
(I  thought  1  could  have  died  to  save  it) 

near'd, 
Touch'd,  clink'd,  and  clash'd,  and  van- 

ish'd,  and  I  woke, 
I  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.     Now  I  see 
My  dream  was  Life  ;  the  woman  honest 

Work  ; 
And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of  glass 
Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold." 

"Nay,"  said  the  kindly  wife  to  com- 
fort him, 

"  You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled  down 
and  broke 

The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medicine 
in  it  ; 

And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and  broke 
your  dream  : 

A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle  breaks." 

"No  trifle,"  groan'd  the  husband; 
"yesterday 

I  met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and 
ask'd 

That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my 
dream. 

Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.  '  Show  me 
the  books  ! ' 

He  dodged  me  with  a  long  and  loose  ac- 
count. 

'  The  books,  the  books  !  *  but  he,  he  could 
not  wait. 

Bound  on  a  matter  he  of  life  and  death  : 

When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel  seven 
and  ten) 

Were  open'd,  I  should  find  he  meant  me 
well ; 

And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and  ooze 

All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 

That  makes  the  widow  lean.  '  My  dear- 
est friend. 

Have  faith,  have  faith  !  We  live  by 
faith,'  said  he  ; 

'  And  all  things  work  togetherfor  thegood 


BEA  DREAMS. 


385 


Ot  those '  —  it  makes  me  sick  to  quote 

him  —  last 
Gript  mj'  hand  hard,  and  with  God-bless- 

you  went. 
I  stood  like  one  that  had  received  a  blow  : 
I  found  a  hard  friend  in  hisloose  accounts, 
A  loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his  hand, 
A  curse  in  his  God-bless-you  :  then  my 

eyes 
Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far 

away, 
Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the  crowd. 
Read  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back. 
And  scoundrel   in  the  supple  -  sliding 

knee." 

"  Was  he  so  bound,  jwor  soul  ? "  said 

the  good  wife  ; 
"So  are  we  all  :  but  do  not  call  him, 

love. 
Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and  proved, 

forgive. 
His  gain  is  loss  ;  for  he  that  wrongs  his 

friend 
Wrongs  himself  more,  and  everbearsabout 
A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast. 
Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  himself 
The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  condemn'd  : 
And  that  drags  down  his  life  :  then  comes 

what  comes 
Hereafter :  and  he  meant,  he  said  he  meant. 
Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant,  you 

well." 

"'With  all  his   conscience  and  one 

eye  askew '  — 
Love,  let  me  quote  these  lines,  that  you 

may  learn 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself. 
Too  often,  in  that  silent  court  of  yours  — 
'  With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye 

askew. 
So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for  true  ; 
Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his  heart 

was  dry. 
Made  wet  the  ciafty  crowsfoot  round  his 

eye; 
Who,  never  naming  God  except  for  gain, 
So  never  took  that  useful  name  in  vain  ; 
Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross 

his  tool. 
And  Christ  th*?  bait  to  trap  his  dupe  and 

fool ; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he 

forged, 
And  snakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he 

gorged  J 


And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o'er  the  rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best. 
Dropping  the  too  rough  H  in  Hell  and 

Heaven, 
To  spread  the  Word  by  which  himself 

had  thriven.' 
How  like  you  this  old  satire  ? " 

"  Nay,"  she  said, 
"  I  loathe  it :  he  had  never  kindly  heart. 
Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind. 
Who  first  wrote  satire,  with  no  pity  in  it. 
But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I  had  one 
That  altogether  went  to  music  ?  Still 
It  awed  me." 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream'd 
Of  that  same  coast. 

"  —  But  round  the  North,  ft  light, 
A  belt,  it  seem'd,  of  luminous  vapor,  lay. 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
Swell'd  up  and  died  ;  and,  as  it  swell' d, 

a  ridge 
Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and  still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when 

the  note 
Had  reach'd  a  thunderous  fulness,  on 

those  cliffs 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light  (the  same 

as  that 
Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she  saw 
That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were  cliffs 

no  more, 
But  huge  catliedral  fronts  of  every  age. 
Grave,  florid,  stern,  as  far  as  eye  could  see. 
One  after  one  :  and  then  the  great  ridge 

drew. 
Lessening  to  the  lessening  music,  back, 
And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell'd  again 
Slowly  to  music  :  ever  when  it  V)roke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder  fell ; 
Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin 

left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters 

round. 
Some  crying,  '  Set  them  up  I  they  shall 

not  fall  ! ' 
And  others  '  Let  them  lie,  for  they  have 

fall'n.' 
And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled  :  and 

she  grieved 
In   her   strange   dream,   she   knew  not 

why,  to  find 
Their  wildest  waiiiiigs  never  out  of  tune 
With  that  sweet  note  ;  and  ever  as  their 

shrieks 


386 


SEA  DREAMS, 


Ran  highest  np  the  gamut,  thatgreat  wave 
Returning,  while  none  mark'd  it,  on  the 

crowd 
Broke,    mixt    with    awful    light,    and 

show'd  their  eyes 
Glaring,  ami  passionate  looks,  and  swept 

away 
The  i-icn  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men  of 

stone. 
To  the  waste  deeps  together. 

'•  Then  I  fixt 
My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images, 
Both  crown'd  with  stars  and  high  among 

the  stars,  — 
The  Virgin  Mother  standing  with  her 

child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  minster- 
fronts  — 
Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a  cry 
Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret's,  and 

I  woke, 
And  my  dream  awed  me  .  —  well  —  but 

what  are  dreams  ? 
Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of  a 

glass. 
And  mine  but  from  the  cryingof  a  child." 

"Child?  No!"   said  he,   "but  this 

tide's  roar,  and  liis. 
Our  Boanerges  with  his  threats  of  doom, 
And  loud-lung'd  Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho'  1  grant  but  little  music  there) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream  :  but  if 

there  were 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries. 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd 

about, 
W^hy,  that  would  make  our  passions  far 

too  like 
The  discords  dear  to  the  musician.  No  — 
One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all   the 

hymns  of  heaven  : 
True  Devils  witli  no  ear,  they  howl  in  tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil ! " 

"  'True'  indeed  ! 
One  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an  hour 
Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on 

the  shore  ; 
While  you  were  running  dowTi  the  sands, 

and  made 
The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbelow 

flap,  . 
Good  man,  to  please  the  child.     She 

brought  strange  news. 


Why  were  you  silent  when  I  spoke  to- 
night ? 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving  him 
Before  you  knew.     We  must  forgive  the 
dead." 

"  Dead  !  who  is  dead  ? " 

"  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  you  had  parted  with  him. 
He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart-disease. " 

"Dead?  he?  of  heart-disease  ?  what 
heart  had  he 
To  die  of?  dead!" 

"Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 
A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too, 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge 

him  with, 
His  angel  broke  his  heart.      But  your 

rough  voice 
(You  sj)oke  so  loud)  has  roused  the  child 

again. 
Sleej),  little  birdie,  sleep !  will  she  not  sleep 
Without  her  '  little  birdie '  ?  well  then, 

sleep, 
And  I  will  sing  you  '  birdie.' " 

Saying  tliis. 
The  woman  half  turn'd  round  from  him 

she  loved. 
Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro' 

the  night 
Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close  beside) 
And  half  embraced  the  basket  crad  le-head 
With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the  pliant 

bough 
That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nest- 
ling, sway'd 
The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby  song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer. 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer. 
Then  she  flies  away. 

# 
What  does  little  baby  say. 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie. 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
TUl  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 


«#fr 


THE   GRANDMOTHER. 


,387 


If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

"She  sleeps :  let  us  too,  let  all  evil,  sleep. 
He  also  sleeps  —  another  sleep  than  ours. 
He  can  do  no  more  wrong :  forgive  him, 

dear. 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  sounder  1 " 

Then  the  man, 
"His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to 

come. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night  be 

sound  : 
I  do  forgive  him  ! " 

"Thanks,  my  love,"  she  said, 
"  Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,"  and 
they  slept. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


And  Willy,  my  eldest-bom,  is  gone,  you 

say,  little  Anne  ? 
Ruddy,  and  white,  and  strong  on  his  legs, 

he  looks  like  a  man. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written  :  she  never 

was  over-wise. 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy  :  he  would  n't 

take  my  advice. 


For,  Annie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not 

the  man  to  save, 
Had  n't  a  head  to  manage,  and  drank 

himself  into  his  giave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty  !  but  I  was 

agjiiust  it  for  one. 
Eh  !  —  but  he  would  n't  hear  me  —  and 

Willy,  you  say,  is  gone. 

III. 
Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-bom,  the 

flower  of  the  flock  ; 
Never  a  man  could  fling  him  :  for  Willy 

stood  like  a  rock. 
"  Here  's  a  leg  for  a  babe  of  a  week  I"  says 

doctor ;  and  he  would  be  bouncl. 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty 

parishes  round. 


Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his 
legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue ! 


I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him  :  I 
wonder  he  went  so  young. 

I  cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie  :  1  have  not 
long  to  stay  ; 

Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for 
he  lived  far  away. 


Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie?  you 

think  I  am  hard  and  cold  ; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me, 

I  am  so  old  : 
I  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep 

for  the  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  eould  have 

wept  with  the  best. 


For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with 

your  father,  my  dear. 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  tiiat  cost  me 

many  a  tear. 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Anniti :  it  cost 

me  a  world  of  woe. 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy 

years  ago. 


For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the 

place,  and  I  knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  trii>t  in  her  time  :   I 

knew,  but  I  would  not  tell. 
And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me, 

the  base  little  liar ! 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fire  as  you  know,  my 

dear,  the  tongue  is  a  fire. 


And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that 

week,  an<l  he  said  likewise, 
That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever 

the  blackest 'of  lies, 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met 

and  fought  with  outright. 
But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder 

matter  to  fight. 


And  Willy  had  not  been  dovra  to  the  farm 

for  a  week  an<l  a  day  ; 
And  all  things  look'd  liiili-dead,  tho'  it 

was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what 

Jenny  had  been ! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never 

make  one's  self  clean. 


388 


THE   GRANDMOTHER, 


The  Grandmother. 


And  I  cried  myself  wellnigh  blind,  and 

all  of  an  evening  late 
I  climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and 

stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 
The  moon  like  a  rick  on  fire  was  rising 

over  the  dale, 
And  whit,  wliit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside 

me  chirrupt  the  nightiugale. 


All  of  a  sndden  he  stopt :  there  past  by 

the  gate  of  the  farm, 
Willy, — he  did  n't  see  me, — and  Jenny 

hung  on  his  arm. 
Out  into  the  road  I  started,  and  spoke  I 

scarce  knew  how  ; 
Ah,  there 's  no  fool  like  the  old  one  — 

it  makes  me  angry  now. 


"Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd 
the  thing  that  he  meant ; 

Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking 
courtesy  and  went. 

And  I  said,  "  Let  us  part :  in  ahundi'ed 
years  it  '11  all  be  the  same, 


You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love 
not  my  good  name." 


And  he  tum'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all 

wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine  : 
"Sweetheart,   1  love  you  so  well  that 

your  good  name  is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her 

speak  of  you  well  or  ill  ; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand  :  we  too  shall 

be  happy  still." 


"Marry  you,  Willy  !"  said  I,  "but  I 
needs  must  speak  my  mind. 

And  I  fear  j'ou  '11  listen  to  tales,  be  jeal- 
ous and  hard  and  unkind." 

But  he  tum'd  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms, 
and  answer' d,   "  No,  love,  no  "  ; 

Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy 
years  ago. 


So  Willy  and  I  were  wedded  :  I  wore  a 
lilac  gown  ; 


THE  GKANDMOTHER. 


389 


And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he 
gave  the  ringers  a  crown. 

But  the  fii-st  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead 
before  he  was  born, 

Shadow  and  sliine  is  life,  little  Annie, 
flower  and  thorn. 


That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I 

thought  of  death. 
There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never 

had  drawn  a  breath. 
I  had  not  wept,  little  Anne,  not  since  I 

had  been  a  wife  ; 
But  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  for  the 

babe  had  fought  for  his  lijfe. 

XVII. 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if 

with  anger  or  pain  : 
I  look'd  at   the  still   little   body — his 

trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 
For  Willy  I  cannot  weep,  I  shall  see  him 

another  mom  : 
But  I  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  that 

was  dead  before  he  was  bom. 

XTIII. 

But  he  cheer'd  me,  my  good  man,  for  he 

seldom  said  me  nay  : 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he  ;  like  a  man, 

too,  would  have  his  way  : 
Never  jealous  —  not  he  :  we  had  many  a 

happy  year  ; 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep  — 

my  own  time  seem'd  so  near. 


But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that 

I,  too,  then  could  have  died  : 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had 

slei)t  at  his  side. 
And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more, 

if  I  don't  forget : 
But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they  're  all 

about  me  yet. 


Pattering  over  the  boards,  ray  Annie  who 
left  me  at  two, 

Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an 
Annie  like  you  : 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and 
goes  at  lier  will, 

While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Char- 
lie ploughing  the  hill. 


And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them  too 

—  they  sing  to  their  team  : 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant 

kind  of  a  dream.  • 
They  come  and   sit  by  my  chair,  they 

hover  about  my  bed  — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive 

or  dead. 

XXII. 

And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there's  none 
of  them  left  alive  ; 

For  HaiTy  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at 
sixty-five : 

And  Willy,  my  eldest-bom,  at  nigh  three- 
score and  ten  ; 

I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they 
're  elderly  men. 

XXIII. 

For  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often 
I  grieve  ; 

I  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  fa- 
ther's farm  at  eve : 

And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and 
gossip,  and  so  do  I  ; 

I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things 
that  have  long  gone  by. 

XXIV. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins 
should  make  us  sad  : 

But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there 
is  Grace  to  be  hatl ; 

And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all 
when  life  shall  cease  ; 

And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  mes- 
sage is  one  of  Peace. 

XXV. 

And  age  is  a  time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free 

from  pain. 
And  happy  has  been  my  life  ;  but  I  would 

not  live  it  again. 
I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that  'sail,  and 

long  for  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have 

we2)t  with  the  best. 

xxrr. 

So  Willy  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest- 
born,  mv  flower  ; 

But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has 
but  gone  for  an  hour,  — 


390 


NOKTHERN   FARMER. 


Goue  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  tliis 

room  into  the  next^ 
I,  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.     What  time 

have  I  to  be  vext  ? 

XXVII. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  never 

was  over-wise. 
Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie  :  thank  God 

that  I  keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  shall 

have  past  away. 
But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now  :  you 

cannot  have  long  to  stay. 

NORTH  Eli  N   FARMER. 

OLD    STYLE. 


Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  lig- 

gin'  'ere  aloan  ? 
Noorse  'i  thoort  nowt  o'  a  noorse  :  whoy. 

Doctor's  abean  an'  agoiin  : 
Says  that  I  moant'a  naw  moor  aale :  but 

I  beant  a  fool  : 
Git  ma  my  aale,  for  I  beant  a-gooin'  to 

break  my  rule. 

II. 
Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  for  a  says 

what 's  nawways  true  : 
Naw  soort  o'  koiud  o'  use  to  saay  the 

things  that  a  do. 
I  've   'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight 

sin'  1  bean  'ere, 
An'  I  've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight 

for  foorty  year. 

III. 
Parson's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin 

'ere  o'  my  bed. 
"Theamoighty'salaakino'  you  to  'issen, 

my  friend,"  a  said. 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an 's  toithe  were 

due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  hond  ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  'm,  as  I  'a  done  by 

the  lond. 


Lam'd  a  ma'  bea.     I  reckons  I  'annot  sa 

mooch  to  lam. 
But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'boot  Bessy 

Harris's  bairn. 
Thaw  a  knawsl  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire 

an'  choorch  an  staate. 
An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toijhes  I  wur  niver 

agin  the  raate. 


An'  I  hallus  coomed  to 's  choorch  afoor  moy 

Sally  wur  dead. 
An'  'eerd  un  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a 

buzzard-clock  *  ower  niy  'ead, 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  meiin'd  but  I 

thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said 

an'  1  coom'd  awaay. 


Bessy  Mams's  bairn  !  thaknawsshe  laaid 

it  to  mea. 
Mowt  'a  beiin,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  abad 

un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  'm,  I  kep  "m,  my  lass,  tha 

mun  understond  ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  'm  as  I  'a  done  by 

the  lond. 


But  Parson  a  comes  an'  a  goos,  an'  a  says 

it  eiisy  an*  freeii 
"Theamoighty's  a  taakin  o'you  to 'issen, 

my  friend,"  says  'ea. 
I  weiint  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun 

said  it  in  'aaste  : 
But  a  reads  wonn  sarmin  aweeiik.an'I  'a 

stubb'd  Thurnaby  waiiste. 


D'ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  ?  naw, 

naw,  tha  was  not  born  then  ; 
Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eerd  'm 

mysen  ; 
Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,  +  for  I  'eerd 

'm  aboot  an'  aboot, 
But   I  stubb'd  'm  oop  wi'  the   lot,  an' 

raaved  an'  renibled  'in  oot. 


Reaper's  it  wur  ;  fo'  they  fun  'm  theer 

a-laiiid  on  'is  faiice 
Doon   i'  the   woild   'enemies  t  afoor   I 

coomed  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby  —  toaner  'ed  shot 

'm  as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noakswur'ang'dforit  oop  at  'soize  —  but 

git  ma  my  'aale. 


Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste  :  theer  warn't 

not  feead  for  a  cow  ; 
Nowt   at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an' 

loook  at  it  now  — 


t  Bittern. 


X  AnenioneG. 


NORTHERN   FARMER. 


391 


Wam't  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now 

theer's  lots  o'  feeiid, 
Fourscoor  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it 

doon  in  seead. 


Nobbut  a  bit  on  it 's  left,  an'  I  mean'd 

to  'a  stubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it   ta-year   I   meiin'd,  an'   runn'd 

plough  thruff  it  an'  all, 
If  godamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nobbut  let 

ma  aloan, 
Mea^wi'  haate  oonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's, 

an'  lond  o'  my  oan. 


Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a  *s  doing 
a-taiikiu'  o'  mea  ? 

I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an' 
yonder  a  pea ; 

An'  Sfinoire  'uU  be  sa  mad  an'  all  —  a' 
dear  a'  dear  ! 

Aud  I  'a  managed  for  Squoire  come  Mich- 
aelmas thutty  year. 


A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  *ant  nor  a 

'ajipoth  o'  sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaen  young  Robins  —  a 

niver  mended  a  fence  : 
But  godamoighty  a  moost  taake  mea  an' 

taiike  ma  now 
Wi'  'aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an*  Thumaby 

hoalms  to  plough  ! 


Ivoook  'ow  quoloty  smoilcs  when  they 

seeas  ma  a  passin'  by, 
Says  to  thessen  naw  doubt  "  what  a  man 

a  beii  sewer-ly  ! " 
For  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire 

sin  fust  a  corned  to  the  'AH  ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  Siiuoire  an'  I  done 

my  duty  by  hall. 


Squoire's  in  Lunnon,  an'  surarann  I  reck- 
ons 'ull  'a  to  wroite. 

For  whoa's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  m^ 
thot  muddles  ma  quoit ; 

Sartin-sewer  I  beii,  thot  a  weant  nirer 
give  it  to  Joanes, 

Naw  nor  a  moiint  to  Robins  —  a  niver 
rembles  the  stoiins. 


But  summun  'nil  come  ater  mea  mayhap 

wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  inaazin'   the  blessed  feiilds 

wi'  the  Divil's  oiin  team. 
If  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  an'  loife  they 

says  is  sweet, 
But  if  I  mun  doy  I   mun   doy,  for  I 

couldu  abear  to  see  it. 


What  atta  stannin'  theer  for,  an'  doesn 

bring  ma  the  'aale  ? 
Doctor's  a  toattler,  lass,  an  a 's  hallus  i' 

the  owd  taale  ; 
I  weiint  break  rules  for  Doctor,  a  knaws 

naw  moor  nor  a  floy  ; 
Git  ma  my  'aale    I   tell   tlia,  an'  if  I 

mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 

TITHONUS. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and 

fall. 
The  vapors  weep  their  burden  to   the 

ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies 

beneath. 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes  :  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms. 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 
A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a 

dream 
The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-fo  (led  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of 

mom. 

Alas  !    for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a 

man  — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice. 
Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  lie 

seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  Ood ! 
I  ask'd  thoe,  "Give  me  immortality." 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with 

a  smile, 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  howthey 

give. 
But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd 

their  wills, 
And  beat  me  down  and  marr'dand  wasted 

me. 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me 

maim'd      , 
To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 


392 


THE  VOYAGE. 


Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 
And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.     Can  thy  love, 
Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho'  even  now. 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide. 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill 

with  tears 
To  hear  me  ?    Let  me  go  :  take  back  thy 

gift: 
Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 
Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet 

for  all  ? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart ;  there 

comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was 

born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer 

steals 
From   thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy 

shoulders  pure. 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 
Thy  cheek  begins   to   redden  thro'    the 

gloom. 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to 

mine. 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild 

team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke, 

arise. 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen'd 

manes. 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo  !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answergiven 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy 

tears. 
And  makemetremble  lest  a  sayingleamt, 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be 

true  ? 
"  The  Gods  themselves  cannotrecall  their 

gifts." 

Ay  me  !  ay  me !  with  whatanother  heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other 

eyes 
I   used    to  watch  —  if  I    be  he    that 

watch' d  — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee ; 

saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings  ; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt 

my  blood 


Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd 
all 

Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  1  lay. 

Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy- 
warm 

With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening 
buds 

Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that 
kiss'd 

Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and 
sweet, 

Like  that  strange  song  1  heard  Apollo  sing, 

While  llion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East : 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine  ? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled 

feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when 

the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the 

homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die. 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground  ; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my 

grave  : 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by 

mom  ; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts, 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


THE  VOYAGE. 


We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 

That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth  ; 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy. 

As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South  : 
How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 

On  open  main  or  winding  shore  ! 
We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 

And  we  might  sail  for  evermore. 


Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the  brow. 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 
The  Lady's-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd  the 
gale. 
The  broad  seas  swell'd  to  meet  the  keel, 

And  swept  behind  :  so  quick  the  run, 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel, 

We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  Sun  ! 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ. 


393 


How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire, 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Fall  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire, 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar'd  light  ! 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn. 
As  thro'  the  slumber  of  the  globe 

Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawn  ! 


New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 

Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view  ; 
They  climb' d  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 

Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean's  heaving  field, 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 

Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield  ; 


The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes. 

High  towns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen. 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 

And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 

Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove, 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker  sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 


By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 

Gloam'd  the  low  coast  and  ([uivering 
brine 
With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 

Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine  ; 
By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 

Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast. 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 

Glow'd  for  a  moment  as  we  past. 


O  hundred  shores  of  happy  climes. 

How  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark  ! 
At  times  the  whole  sea  bum'd,  at  times 

With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark  ; 
At  times  a  carven  craft  would  shoot 

From  hav(ins  hid  in  fairy  bowers, 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit, 

But  we  nor  paused  for  fruit  nor  flowers. 

viit. 
For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  tlie  wivste  waters  day  and  night. 
And  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led, 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 


Her  face  was  evermore  unseen, 
And  fixt  upon  the  far  sea-line  ; 

But  each  man  murmur'd,  "0  my  Queen, 
I  follow  till  I  make  thee  mine." 


And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air. 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem'd 

Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge  fair. 
Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 

Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown' d  the 
sea, 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed. 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 


And  only  one  among  us  —  him 

We    pleased    not  —  he    was    seldom 
pleased  : 
He  saw  not  far  :  his  eyes  were  dim  : 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
"  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  shriek'd  in  spite, 

"  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  sneer'd  and  wept. 
And  overboard  one  stonny  night 

He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 


And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl'd. 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn  ; 
We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world, 

Birt  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn  ; 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and  cease, 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove  the 
sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace. 

And  to  and  thro'  the  counter-gale  ? 


Again  to  colder  climes  we  came, 

For  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led  : 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame. 

And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead. 
But  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound 

We  follow  that  which  flies  Iwfore : 
We  know  the  merry  world  is  round, 

And  we  may  sail  for  evermore. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ. 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flash- 

est  white. 
Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening 

of  the  night. 
All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow. 


394 


THE  ISLET. 


I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thir- 
ty years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley  while  I  walk'd  to-day, 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist 
that  rolls  away  ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky 
bed 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice 
of  the  dead, 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and 
cave  and  tree, 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice 
to  me. 


THE   FLOWER. 

Once  in  a  golden  hour 
1  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 

Up  there  came  a  flower, 
The  people  said,  a  weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower. 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light, 

But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall. 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 

Till  all  the  people  cried 
"Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  fable  : 
He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough. 
And  some  are  poor  indeed  ; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly  slow- 
ly glides. 

It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 
Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 


And  fairer  she,  but  ah  how  soon  to  die  t 
Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour  may 
cease. 

Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 
To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


THE  SAILOR-BOY. 

He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope, 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbor-bar. 

And  reach'd  the  ship  and  caught  the 
rope, 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

"0  boy,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  proitd, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

"  The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 

And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks. 
And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play." 

"  Fool,"  he  answer'd,  "death  is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and  those  that  roam, 

But  I  will  nevermore  endure 

To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

"  My  mother  clings  about  my  neck. 
My  sisters  crying  '  Stay  for  shame ' ; 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck. 
They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to 
blame. 

"  God  help  me  !  save  I  take  my  part 
Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 

A  devil  rises  in  my  heart. 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me." 


THE   ISLET. 

"  WiiiTHEU,  0  whither,  love,  shall  we  go, 
Forascoreof.sweetlittlesunimersorso  ? " 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said. 
On   the  day  that  foUow'd  the   day  she 

was  wed, 
"Whither,  0  whither,  love,  shall wego?" 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Turn'd  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a  sudden  crash. 
Singing,  "  And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a  crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor  rash, 
But  a  bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek'd. 
In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak'd. 
With  a  satin  sail  of  a  ruby  glow, 


THE  RINGLET. 


395    J 


To  a  sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I  know, 
A  mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak'd  ;  ■ 
"Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash, 
Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Faiiily-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 
And  overstream'd  and  silvery-streak'd 
With  many  arivulet  high  against  the  Sun 
The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain  flash 
Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine." 

"  Thither,  0  thither,  love,  let  us  go." 

"  No,  no,  no  ! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear. 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a  musical 

throat. 
And  his  compass  is  but  of  a  single  note. 
That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear." 

"  Mock  me  not !  mock  me  not !  love,  let 
us  go." 

"No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on 

the  tree. 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  in  the  lonely  sea, 
And  a  worm  is  there  in  the  lonely  wood. 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens  the 

blood. 
And  makes  it  a  sorrow  to  be." 


LITERARY  SQUABBLES. 

Ah  God  !  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme 
That  shriek  and  sweat  in  pygmy  wars 
Before  the  stony  face  of  Time, 
And  look'd  at  by  the  silent  stars  : 

Who  hate  each  other  for  a  song. 
And  do  their  little  best  to  bite 
And  pinch  their  brethren  in  the  throng, 
And  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite  : 

And  strain  to  make  an  inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selves,  and  cannot  hear 
The  sullen  Lethe  rolling  doom 
On  them  and  theirs  and  all  things  here  : 

When  one  small  touch  of  Charity 
Could  lift  them  nearer  God-like  state 
Than  if  the  crowded  Orb  should  cry 
Like  those  who  cried  Diana  great  : 

And  I  too,  talk,  and  lose  the  touch 
I  talk  of.     Surely,  after  all. 
The  noblest  answer  unto  such 
Is  perfect  stillness  when  they  brawl. 


THE  RINGLET.. 

'•YotTR  ringlets,  your  ringlets, 

That  look  so  golden-gay. 
If  you  will  give  nie  one,  but  one. 

To  kiss  it  night  and  day, 
Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Will  turn  it  silver-gray  ; 
And  then  shall  I  know  it  is  all  true  gold 
To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of  old. 
Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold. 

And  all  her  stars  decay." 
"  Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by  ; 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  I." 


"  My  ringlet,  my  ringlet. 

That  art  so  golden-gay. 
Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Can  turn  thee  silver-gray  ; 
And  a  lad  may  wink,  and  a  girl  may  hint, 

And  a  fool  may  say  his  say  ; 
For  my  doubts  and  fears  were  all  amiss. 
And  I  swear  henceforth  by  tliis  and  this. 
That  a  doubt  will  only  come  for  a  kiss. 

And  a  fear  to  be  kiss'd  away." 
"Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by  : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  cau  1." 


0  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

I  kiss'd  you  night  and  day. 
And  Ringlet,  0  Kinglet. 

You  still  are  golden -gay. 
But  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray  : 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  'm  told, 

1  that  took  you  for  tnie  gold, 

She  that  gave  you  's  bought  and  sold, 
Sold,  sold. 


0  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

She  blush'd  a  rosy  red. 
When  Ringlet,  0  Kinglet, 

She  dipt  yon  from  her  head, 
And  Kinglet,  0  Ringlet, 

She  gave  you  me,  and  said, 
"  Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  i)ut  it  by 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 
U  fie,  you  golden  nothing,  fie 
You  goldi'U  lie. 


0  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  count  you  much  to  blame, 


396 


ODE. 


For  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

You  put  me  much  to  shame. 

So  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 
I  doom  you  to  the  flame. 

For  what  is  this  which  now  I  learn, 

Has  given  all  my  faith  a  turn  ? 

Burn,  you  glossy  heretic,  bum. 
Bum,  burn. 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 

March  7,  1863. 

Sea-kings'  daughter  from  over  the  sea, 

Alexandra ! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 

Welcome  her,   thunders  of  fort  and  of 

fleet! 
Welcome  her,   thundering  cheer  of  the 

street  ! 
Welcome  her,    all   things  youthful  and 

sweet, 
Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet ! 
Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers  ! 
'  Make  music,  0  bird,  in  the  new-budded 

bowers  ! 
Blazon    your  mottoes    of  blessing  and 

praj'^er ! 
Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is 

ours  ! 
Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare  ! 
Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers  ! 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare  ! 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  ! 
Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air  ! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire  ! 
Rush  to  the  roof,   sudden  rocket,  and 

higher 
Melt  into  stars  for  the  land's  desire  ! 
Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice. 
Roll  as  aground-swell  dash'd  on  the  strand. 
Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  theland. 
And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's  de- 
sire, 
The  sea-kings'  daughter  as  happy  as  fair. 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir, 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the  sea — 
O  joy  to  the  people,  and  joy  to  the  throne, 
Come  to  us,  love  us  and  make  us  your 

own  : 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 
Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  l>e, 
We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of 

thee, 

Alexandra ! 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING  OP 
THE  INTERNATIONAL  EXHI- 
BITION. 

Uplift  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet, 
In  this  wide  hall  with  earth's  inven- 
tion stored, 
And  praise  th'  invisible  universal  Lord, 
Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  nations 
meet. 
Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have 
outpour'd 
Their  myriad   homs   of  plenty  at   our 
feet. 

0  silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 
Mourn'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee. 
For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to 
theel 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine. 

And,  lo  !  the  long  laborious  miles 

Of  Palace  ;  lo  !  the  giant  aisles, 

Rich  in  model  and  design  ; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandry. 

Loom  and  wheel  and  engin'ry, 

Seciets  of  the  sullen  mine, 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wire. 

Fabric  rough,  or  Fairy  fine, 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder,  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Ait  divine  ! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use. 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce. 

Brought  from  under  every  star. 
Blown  from  over  every  main. 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of  war. 

0  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who 

reign. 
From  growing  commerce  loose  her  latest 

chain, 
And  let  .the   fair  white-winged  peace- 
maker fly 
To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 
And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden 

hours. 
Till  each  man  finds  his  own  in  all  men's 

good. 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherhood. 
Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  amied 

towers. 
And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's  powers, 
And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  peace 

and  crown'd  with  all  her  flowers. 


BOADICEA. 


397 


DEDICATION. 

Dear,  near  and  true  —  no  truer  Time 

himself 
Can  prove  you,  tho'  he  make  you  evermore 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the  fall  —  take  this,  and  i)ray 

that  he. 
Who  wrote  it,  honoring  your  sweet  faith 

in  him. 
May  trust  himself ;  and  spite  of  praise 

and  scorn. 


As  one  who  feels  the  immeasurable  world. 
Attain  the  wise  indillerence  of  the  wise  ; 
And   after   Autumn   past  —  if  left  to 

})ass 
His  autumn  into  seeming-leafless  days  — 
Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  longest 

night, 
Wearing  his  wisdom  lightly,  like  the 

fruit 
Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks  a 

flower.* 

♦  The  fruit  of  the  Spindle-tree  [Euonymus  Eurofaut.) 


EXPERIMENTS. 


BOADICEA. 

While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those 

Neronian  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of 

the  Druid  and  Druidess, 
Far  in  the  East  Boadicea,  standing  loftily 

charioted. 
Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her 

in  her  fierce  volubility, 
Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near 

the  colony  Camulodune, 
Yell'dand  shriek'd  between  herdaughters 

o'er  a  wild  confederacy. 

"They  that  scorn  the- tribes  and  call 

us  Britain's  barbarous  populaces. 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen, 

did  they  pity  me  supplicating  ? 
Shall  I  heed  them  in  their  anguish  ?  shall 

I  brook  to  be  supplicated  ? 
Hear  Iccnian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Cori- 

tanian,  Trinobant  ! 
Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle's  beak 

and  talon  annihilate  us  ? 
Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it 

gorily  quivering  ? 
Bark  an  answer,  Britain's  raven  !  bark 

and  blacken  innumerable, 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make 

the  carcass  a  skeleton. 
Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolf  kin,  from 

the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it, 
Till  the  face  of  liel  be  brighteii'd,  Tani- 

nis  be  propitiated. 
Lo  their  colony  half-ih^fended  !  lo  their 

colony,  Cdmuloduue  ! 


There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock 
at  a  barbarous  adversary. 

There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a 
gluttonous  emperor-idiot. 

Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity  :  hear 
it,  Spirit  of  Cassivelaun  ! 

"  Hear  it,  Gods  !  the  Gods  have  heard 
it,  0  Icenian,  O  Coritanian  ! 

Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer'd, 
Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant. 

These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in 
miraculous  utterances. 

Thunder,  a  flying  fire  in  heaven,  a  mur- 
mur heard  aerially, 

Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending, 
moan  of  an  enemy  massacred. 

Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children, 
multitudinous  agonies. 

Bloodily  flow'd  the  Tamesa  rolling  phan- 
tom bodies  of  horses  and  men  ; 

Then  a  phantom  colony  smoulder'd  on 
the  refluent  estuary  ; 

Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  gid- 
dily tottering  — 

There  was  one  who  watch'd  and  told  me 
—  down  their  statue  of  Victory  fel  1 . 

Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo 
the  colony  Camulodi'ine, 

Shall  we  teach  it  a  Koman  lesson  ?  .shall 
we  care  to  Ik;  ]>itiful  ? 

Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant  ?  .shall 
we  dandle  it  amorously  ? 

"  Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear 
Coritanian,  Trinobant  1 


398 


IN   QUANTITY. 


While  I  roved  aTwut  the   forest,  long 

and  bitterl)'  meditating, 
There  1  heard  them  in  the  darkness,  at 

the  mystical  ceremony, 
Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang 

the  terrible  projihetesses. 
'  Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle 

of  silvery  parapets  ! 
Tho'  the  Koman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho' 

the  gathering  enemy  narrow  thee. 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle, 

thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one  yet ! 
Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine 

the  deeds  to  be  celebrated. 
Thine   the  myriad-rolling  ocean,   light 

and  shadow  illimitable. 
Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many- 
blossoming  Paradises, 
Tliine  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and 

thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God.' 
So  they  chanted  :  how  shall  Britain  light 

upon  auguries  happier  ? 
So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and 

there  cometh  a  victory  now. 

"Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear 
Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 

Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the 
lover  of  liberty. 

Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured, 
me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated, 

Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,   mine 
of  rufBan  violators  ! 

See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  mis- 
erable in  ignominy  ! 

Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by 
blood  to  be  satiated. 

Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  col- 
ony Camulodiine  ! 

There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted 
all  the  flourishing  territory, 

Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yel- 
low-ringleted Britoness  — 

Bloodily,   bloodily   fall   the   battle-axe, 
unexhausted,  inexorable. 

Shout    Icenian,    Catieuchlanian,    shout 
Coritanian,  Trinobant, 

Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn 
to  hurry  precipitou.sly 

Like  the  leaf  in  a  roaring  whirlwind,  like 
the  smoke  in  a  hurricane  whirl'd. 

Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the 
city  of  Ci'inobeli'ne  ! 

There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald, 
there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay. 

Rolling  on  their  purple  couches  in  their 
tender  effeminacy. 


There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted  ; 

there — there — they  dwell  no  more. 
Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  palaces, 

break  the  works  of  the  statuary. 
Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter 

it,  hold  it  abominable, 
Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust 

and  voluptuousness. 
Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they 

lash'd  and  humiliated. 
Chop  the  breasts  from  ott'  the  mother,  dash 

the  brains  of  the  little  one  out. 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my 

chargers,'  trample  them  under  us. " 

So  the  Queen  Boadicea,  standing  loftily 

charioted. 
Brandishing  in  her  hand  a  dart  and  roll- 
ing glances  lioness-like, 
Yell'd  and  shriek'd  between  her  daughter 

in  her  fierce  volubility. 
Till  her  people   all   around  the    royal 

chariot  agitated. 
Madly  dash'd  the  darts  together,  writhing 

barbarous  lineaments, 
Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when 

they  shiver  in  January, 
Roar'd  as  when  the  rolling  breakers  boom 

and  blanch  on  the  precipices, 
Yell'd  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear 

an  oak  on  a  promontory. 
So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumul- 
tuous adversaries 
Clash  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  beat 

■with  rapid  unanimous  hand. 
Thought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  all 

her  pitiless  avarice. 
Till  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and 

flutter  tremulously. 
Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her 

enemy  fainted  away. 
Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny 

tyranny  buds. 
Ran   the   land   with  Roman  slaughter, 

multitudinous  agonies. 
Perish'd  many  a  maid  and  matron,  many 

a  valorous  legionary. 
Fell  the  colony,  city,  and  citadel,  London, 

Verulam,  Camulodune. 

IN   QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

0  mighty-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmo- 
nies, 
0  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 


% 


SPECIMEN   OF  A  TRANSLATION. 


399 


God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages  ; 
Wliose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armo- 
ries, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Kings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  on- 
set— 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness. 
The  brooks  of  Eden  niazily  murmuring. 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle, 
And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palm- 
woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 

Hendccasyllabics. 
0  YOU  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers. 
Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  poem 
All  composed  in  a  metre  of  Catullus, 
All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion. 
Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears 

him. 
Lest  I  fall  unawares  before  the  people, 
Waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers. 
Should  I  flounder  awhile  without  a  tum- 
ble 
Thro'  this  metrification  bf  Catullus, 
They  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a 

welcome. 
All  that  eliorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 
Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to  tum- 
ble. 
So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 
Wherefore   slight   me   not  wholly,   nor 

believe  me 
Too  ])resuniptuous,  indolent  reviewers. 
0  blatant  Magazines,  regard  me  ratlier  — 
Since  I  blush  to  belaudmyselfamoment — 
As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  of  in- 
most 
Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 
Maiden  not  to  be  greeted  uubenignly. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLATION 
OF  THE  ILIAD  IN  BLANK 
VERSE. 

So  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roar'd  his 

host ; 
Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from 

the  yoke. 
And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his  own ; 
And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly  sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted 

wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  brought, 

and  heap'd 
Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off 

the  plain 
Roll'd  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the  heaven. 
And  these  all  night  u])on  the  bridge  *  of 

war 
Sat  glorying  ;  many  a  fire  before  them 

blazed  : 
As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the 

moon 
Ixxjk  beautiful,  when  all  the  windsare  laid, 
And  every  lieight  comes  out,  and  juttmg 

peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heav- 
ens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the 

stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in  his 

heart : 
So  many  a  fire  between  the  ships  and 

stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of 

Troy, 
A  thousand  on  the  plain;  and  close  by  each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire  ; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses 

stood 
Hard  bv  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the 

dawn.t 

Iliad  NIU.  542-561. 

•  Or,  ridRC. 

t  Or  mfirc  literany,  — 

And  catiiif'  lioary  ifrain  ami  jiulse  the  Meeds 
Stood  by  their  cars,  waiting  the  tlironid  mom. 


400 


TIMBUCTOO. 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS. 


Note.  —  The  Poems  which  follow  include  all  those  which  have  been  omitted  by  the  author  from  his  latest  re- 
vised editions,  or  never  acknowledjjed  by  him.  They  are  here  printed,  because,  altliouijh  unsanctioned  by  Mr. 
Tennyson,  they  have  recently  been  collected  from  various  sources,  and  printed  in  Anurica, 


TIMBUCTOO.* 

'*  Deep  in  that  lion-haunted  inland  lies 
A  mystic  city,  ifoal  of  hij^h  emprise.** 

CHAPMAN. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  Mountain  which  o'er- 

looks 
The  narrow  seas,  whose  rapid  interval 
Parts  Afric  from  green  Europe,   when 

the  Sun 
Had  fall'n  below  th'  Atlantic,  and  above 
The  silent  heavens  were  blench'd  with 

faery  light, 
tTncertain  whether  faerj'  light  or  cloud, 
Flowing  Southward,  and  the  chasms  of 

deep,  deep  blue 
Slumber'd  unfathomable,  and  the  stars 
Were  flooded  over  with  clear  gloi-y  and  pale. 
I  gazed  upon  the  sheeny  coast  beyond, 
There  where  the  Giant  of  old  Time  infix'd 
The  limits  of  his  prowess,  pillars  high 
Long  time  erased  from  earth  :  even  as 

the  Sea 
When  weary  of  wild  inroad  buildeth  up 
Huge  mounds  whereby  to  stay  his  yeasty 

waves. 
And  much  I  mused  on  legends  quaint 

and  old 
Which  whilome  won  the  hearts  of  all  on 

earth 
Toward  their  brightness,  ev'n  as  flame 

draws  air  ; 
But  had  their  being  in  the  heart  of  man 
As  air  is  th'  life  of  flame  :  and  thou  wert 

then 
A  centred  glory-circled  memory, 
Divinest  Atalantis,  whom  tlie  waves 
Have  buried  deep,  and  thou  of  later  name. 
Imperial  Eldorado,  roof 'd  with  gold  : 
Shadows  to  which,  despite  all  shocks  of 

change. 
All  on-set  of  capricious  accident. 
Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which 

would  not  die. 

•  A  Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor's  Medal  at 
the  Cambridge  Commencement,  MDCCCXXIX.  By 
A.  Tennyson,  ol  Trinity  College. 


Aswhen  in  some  great  city  where  the  walls 

Shake,  and  the  streets  with  ghastly  faces 
thronged. 

Do  utter  forth  a  subten*anean  voice. 

Among  the  inner  columns  far  retired 

At  midnight,  in  the  lone  Acropolis, 

Before  tlie  awful  genius  of  the  place 

Kneels  the  pale  Priestess  in  deep  faith, 
the  while 

Above  her  head  the  weak  lamp  dips  and 
winks 

Unto  the  fearful  summoning  without  : 

Nathless  she  ever  clasps  the  marble  knees, 

Bathes  the  cold  hand  with  tears,  and 
gazeth  on 

Those  eyes  whicli  wear  no  light  but  that 
wherewith 

Her  fantasy  informs  them. 

AVliere  are  ye, 

Thrones  of  the  Western  wave,  fair  Isl- 
ands green  ? 

Where  are  your  moonlight  halls,  your 
cedarn  glooms, 

The  blossoming  abysses  of  your  hills  ? 

Your  flowering   capes,   and   your  gold- 
sanded  bays 

Blown  round  witli  happy  airs  of  odorous 
winds  ? 

Where   are    the  infinite   ways,    which, 
seraph-trod. 

Wound  through  your  great  Elysian  soli- 
tudes, 

Whose  lowest  deeps  were,  as  with  visible 
love, 

Filled  with  Divine  efl"ulgence,  circum- 
fused, 

Flowing  between  the  clear  and  polished 
stems, 

And  ever  circling  round  their  emerald 
cones 

In  coronals  and  glories,  such  as  gird 

The  unfading  foreheads  of  the  Saints  in 
Heaven  ? 

For  nothing  visible,  they  say,  had  birth 

In  that  blest  ground,  but  it  was  played 
about 


TIMBUCTOO. 


401 


With  its  peculiar  glory.     Then  T  raised 
My  voice  and  cried,  "Wide  AlVic,  doth 

thy  Sun 
Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold  a  city  as  fair 
As  those  which  starred  the  night  o'  the 

elder  world  ? 
Or  is  the  rumor  of  thy  Timbuctoo 
A  dream  as  frail  as  those  of  ancient  time  ? " 
A  curve  of  whitening,  flashing,  ebbing 
light ! 
A  rustling  of  white  wings  !  the  bright 

descent 
Of  a  young  Seraph  !  and  he  stood  beside  me 
There  on  the  ridge,  and  looked  into  my 

face 
With  his  unutterable,  shining  orbs, 
So  that  with  hasty  motion  I  did  veil 
My  vision  with  both  hands,  and  saw  be- 
fore me 
Such  colored  spots  as  dance  athwart  the 

eyes 
Of  those  that  gaze  upon  the  noonday  Sun. 
Girt  with  a  zone  of  iiashing  gold  beneath 
His  breast,  and  compassed  round  about 

his  brow 
With  triple  arch  of  everchanging  bows, 
And  circled  with  the  glory  of  living  light 
And  alternation  of  all  hues,  he  stood. 
•*  0  child  of  man,  why  muse  you  here 
alone 
TJpon  the  Mountain,  on  the  dreams  of  old 
Wliich  filled  the  earth  with  passing  love- 
liness, 
Which  flung  strange  music  on  the  howl- 
ing winds. 
And  odors  rapt  from  remote  Paradise  ? 
Thy  sense  is  clogged  with  dull  mortality : 
Open  thine  eyes  and  see." 

I  looked,  but  not 
Upon  his  face,  for  it  was  wonderful 
With  its  exceeding  brightness,  and  the 

light 
Of  the  gieat  Angel  Mind  which  looked 

from  out 
The  starry  glowing  of  his  restless  eyes. 
I  felt  my  soul  grow  mighty,  and  my  spirit 
With  supernatural  excitation  bound 
Within  me,  and  my  mental  eye  grew  large 
With   such    a    vast    circumference    of 

thought. 
That  in  my  vanity  I  seemed  to  stand 
Ui)on  the  outward  verge  and  bound  alone 
Oi  full  beatitude.     Each  failing  sense. 
As  with  a  momentary  flash  of  light, 
Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen.  I  saw 
The  smallest  grain  that  dappled  the  dark 
earth, 


The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air. 
The  Moon's  white  cities,  and  the  opal 

width 
Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver 

heights 
TJnvisited  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud. 
And  the  unsounded,  imdescended  depth 
Of  her  black  hollows.     The  clear  galaxy 
Shorn  of  its  hoary  lustre,  wonderful. 
Distinct  and  vivid  with  sharp  points  of 

light. 
Blaze  within  blaze,  an  iinimagined  depth 
And  harmony  of  planet-girded  suns 
And  moon-encircled   planets,  wheel  in 

wheel, 
Arched  the  wan   sapphire.     Nay—  the 

hum  of  men, 
Or  other  things  talking   in  unknown 

tongues, 
And  notes  of  busy  life  in  distant  worlds 
Beat  like  a  far  wave  on  my  anxious  ear. 
A  maze  of  piercing,  trackless,  thrilling 

thoughts. 
Involving  and  embracing  each  with  each, 
Rapid  as  fire,  inextricably  linked. 
Expanding  momently  with  every  sight 
And  sound  which  struck  the  palpitating 

sense, 
The  issue  of  strong  impulse,   hurried 

through 
The  riven  rapt  brain  ;  as  when  in  some 

large  lake 
From  pressure  of  descendent  crags,  which 

lapse 
Disjointed,  crumbling  from  their  parent 

slope 
At  slender  interval,  the  level  calm 
Is  ridged  with  restless  and  increasing 

spheres 
Which  break  upon  each  other,  each  th' 

effect 
Of  separate  impulse,  but  more  fleet  and 

strong 
Than  its  precursor,  till  the  eye  in  vain 
Amid  the  wild  unrest  of  swimming  shade 
Dappled  with  hollow  and  alt<!ruate  rise 
Of  interpenetrated  arc,  would  scan 
Definite  round. 

I  know  not  if  I  shano 
These  things  with  accurate  .siinilitudo 
From  visible  objects,  for  but  dimly  now, 
Less  vivid  than  a  half- forgotten  dream, 
The  memory  of  that  mentiil  exi-clhiice 
Comes  o'er  me,  and  it  may  he  1  entwine 
The  indecision  of  my  present  mind 
With  its  past  cleam&ss,  yet  it  seems  tome 
As  even  tneu  the  torrent  of  quick  thought 


402 


TIMBUCTOO. 


Absorbed  me  from  the  nature  of  itself 
With  its  own  fleetness.     Where  is  he, 

that  borne 
Adown  the  sloping  of  an  arrowy  stream, 
Could  link  liisslialloj)  to  the  fleetingedge, 
And  muse  midway  with  philosophic  calm 
Upon  the  wondrous  laws  which  regulate 
The  fierceness  of  the  bounding  element  ? 
My  thoughts  which  long  had  gi-ovelled 

in  the  slime 
Of  this   dull  world,  like   dusky  worms 

which  house 
Beneath  unshaken  waters,  but  at  once 
Upon  some  earth-awakeningday  of  Spring 
Do  pass  from  gloom  to  glory,  and  aloft 
Winnow   the  purple,   bearing  on  both 

sides 
Double  display  of  star-lit  wings,  which 

burn 
Fan-like  and  fibred  with  intensest  bloom  ; 
Even  so  my  thoughts  erewhile  so  low, 

now  felt 
Unutterable  buoyancy  and  strength 
To  bear  them  upward  through  the  track- 
less fields 
Of  undefined  existence  far  and  free. 
Then  first  within  the  South  methought 

I  saw 
A  wilderness  of  spires,  and  crystal  pile 
Of  rampart  upon  rampart,  dome  on  dome. 
Illimitable  range  of  battlement 
On  battlement,  and  the  Imperial  height 
Of  canopy  o'ercanopied. 

Behind 
In  diamond  light  up  spring  the  dazzling 

peaks 
Of  Pyramids,  as  far  surpassing  earth's 
As  heaven   than  earth  is  fairer.     Each 

aloft 
Upon  his  narrowed  eminence  bore  globes 
Of  wheeling  suns,  or  stars,  or  semblances 
Of  either,  showering  circular  abyss 
Of  radiance.     But  the  glory  of  the  place 
Stood  out  a  pillared  front  of  burnished 

gold. 
Interminably  high,  if  gold  it  were 
Or  metal  more  ethereal,  and  beneath 
Two  doors  of  blinding  brilliance,  where 

no  gaze 
Might  rest,  stood  open,  and  the  eye  could 

scan. 
Through  length  of  porch  and  valve  and 

boundless  hall. 
Part  of  a  throne  of  fiery  flame,  wherefrom 
The  snowy  skirting  of  a  garment  hung, 
And  glimpse  of  multitude  of  multitudes 
That  ministered  around  it  —  if  I  saw 


These  things  distinctly,  for  my  human 

brain 
Staggered  lieneath  the  vision,  and  thick 

night 
Came  down  upon  my  eyelids,  and  I  fell. 
With  ministering  hand  he  raised  me  up : 
Then  with  amournful  and inefi'able smile. 
Which  but  to  look  on  for  a  moment  filled 
My  eyes  with  irresistible  sweet  tears. 
In  accents  of  majestic  melody. 
Like  a  swolnriver'sgushingsin  still  night 
Mingled  with   floating  music,  thus   he 

spake  : 
"  There  is  no  mightier  Spirit  than  I  to 

sway 
The  heart  of  man ;  and  teach  him  to  attain 
By  shadowing  forth  the  Unattainable  ; 
And  step  by  step  to  scale  that  mighty  stair 
Whose  landing-place  is  wi'apt  about  with 

clouds 
Of  glory  of  heaven.  *    With  earliest  light 

of  Spring, 
And  in  the  glow  of  sallow  Summertiile, 
And  in  red  Autumn  when  the  winds  are 

wild 
With  gambols,   and  when    full-voiced 

Winter  roofs 
The  headland  with  inviolate  white  snow, 
I  play  about  his  heart  a  thousand  ways. 
Visit  his  eyes  with  visions,  and  liis  ears 
With  harmonies  of  wind  and  wave  and 

wood, 
—  Of  winds  which  tell  of  waters,  and  of 

waters 
Betraying  the  close  kisses  of  the  wind  — 
And  win  him  unto  me  :  and  few  there  be 
So  gross  of  heart  who  have  not  felt  and 

known 
Ahigherthan  they  see :  they  with  dim  eyes 
Behold  me  darkling.     Lo  !  I  have  given 

thee 
To  understand  my  presence,  and  to  feel 
My  fulness  :  I  have  filled  thy  lips  with 

power. 
I  have  raised  thee  nigher  to  the  spheres 

of  heaven, 
Man's  first,  last  home  :  and  thou  with 

ravished  sense 
Listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years.     I  am  the  Sl)ili^, 
The    permeating    life    which    course  ih 

through 
All  th'  intricate  and  labyrinthine  veins 
Of  the  great  vine  of  Fable,  which,  out- 
spread 

•  "  Be  ye  perfect,  even  as  your  Father  in  heaveu  is 
perfect." 


THE  "how"   and  the  "WHY.' 


403 


With  growth  of  shadowing  leaf  and  clus- 
ters rare, 
Reacheth  to  every  corner  under  heaven, 
Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of  truth  ; 
So  that  men's  hopes  and  fears  take  refuge  in 
The  fragrance  of  its  complicated  glooms, 
And  cool  impeached  twilights.     Child  of 

man, 
Seest  thou  yon  river,  whose  translucent 

wave, 
Forth  issuing  from  the  darkness,  windeth 

through 
The  argent  streets  o'  the  city,  imaging 
The  soft  inversion  of  hertremulousdoraes. 
Her  gardens  frequent  with  the  stately 

palm. 
Her  pagods  hung  with  music  of  sweet  hells. 
Her  obelisks  of  ranged  chrysoUte, 
iUnarets  and  towers  ?    Lo  !  how  he  pass- 

eth  by. 
And  gulfs  himself  in  sands,  as  not  en- 
during 


To  carry  through  the  world  those  waves, 

which  bore 
The  reflex  of  my  city  in  their  depth. 
0  city  !  0  latest  throne  !   where  I  was 

raised 
To  be  a  mystery  of  loveliness 
Unto  all  eyes,  the  time  is  wellnigh  come 
When  1  must  render  up  this  glorious  home 
To  keen  Discovery ;  soon  yon  brilliant 

towers 
Shall  darken  with  the  wavingof  her  wand  ; 
Darken  and  shrink  and  shiver  iuto  huts, 
iilack  specks  amid  a  waste  of  dreary  sand. 
Low -built,  mud-waUed,  barbarian  settle- 
ments. 
How  changed  from  this  fair  city  !  " 

Thus  far  the  Spirit  : 
Then  parted  heavenward  on  the  wing  : 

and  I 
Was  left  alone  on  Calpe,  and  the  moon 
Had  fallen  from  the  night,  and  aU  was 
dark  1 


POEMS  PUBLISHED   IN  THE  EDITION   OF  1830, 
AND   OMITTED   IN  LATEE  EDITIONS. 


ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming  the 
broad  valley  dimmed  in  the  gloam- 
ing : 

Thro'  the  black -stemmed  pines  only  the 
far  river  .shines. 

Creeping  through  blossomy  rushes  and 
bowers  of  rose-blowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  babble 
and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly  ;  the 
grasshopper  carolleth  clearly  ; 

Deeply  the  turtle  cooes ;  shrilly  the  owlet 
halloos  ; 

Winds  creep  :  dews  fall  chilly :  inherfirst 
sleep  earth  breathes  stilly  : 

Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  watergnats 
murmur  and  mourn. 

Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth  :  the  glimmer- 
ing water  outfloweth  : 

Twin  peaKs  shadowed  with  pine  slope  to 
the  dark  hyaline. 

Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  between 
the  two  peaks  ;  but  the  Naiad 

Throbbing  in  wild  unrest  holda  him  be- 
neath in  her  breast. 


The  ancient  poetess  singeth  that  Hespe- 
rus all  things  bringeth. 

Smoothing  the  wearied  mind  :  bring  me 
my  love,  Rosalind. 

Thou  comest  morning  and  even  ;  she  com- 
eth  not  morning  or  even. 

False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is  my 
sweet  Rosalind  ? 


THE  "HOW"  AND  THE  "WHY. 


? 


I  AM  any  man's  suitor, 
If  any  will  be  my  tutor  : 
Some  say  this  life  is  pleasant. 
Some  think  it  spcicdeth  fast, 
In  time  th(!re  is  no  jjreseut. 
In  eternity  no  future. 
In  eternity  no  past. 
We  laugh,  we  cry,  we  are  born,  we  die. 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the 
why  f 

Tlie  bulrush  nods  unto  its  brother. 
The  wheatears  whisper  to  each  other  : 


404 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS. 


What  is  it  they  say  ?  what  do  they  there  ? 
Why  two  and  two  make  four  ?  why  round 

is  not  square  ? 
Why  the  rock  stands  still,  and  the  light 

clouds  fly  ? 
Why  the  heavy  oak  groans,  and  the  white 

willows  sigh  ? 
W  hy  deep  is  not  high,  and  high  is  not  deep  ? 
Whether  we  wake,  or  whether  we  sleep  ? 
Whether  we  sleep,  or  whether  we  die  ? 
How  you  are  you  ?  why  I  am  I  ? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  Iww  and  the  why  J 

The  world  is  somewhat ;  it  goes  on  some- 
how : 

But  what  is  the  meaning  oithen  and  twwJ 
I  feel   there   is  something ;  but  how 
and  what  ? 

I  know  there  is  somewhat :  but  what  and 
why  ? 

I  cannot  tell  if  that  somewhat  be  I. 
Jhelittlebirdpii)eth—  " why?  why?" 

In  the  summer  woods  when  the  sun  falls 
low, 

And  the  great  bird  sits  on  the  opposite 
bough. 

And  stares  in  his  face,  and  shouts  "how  ? 
how  ? " 

And  the  black  owl  scuds  down  the  mel- 
low twilight. 

And   chants  "how?   how?"  the  whole 
of  the  night. 

Why  the  life  goes  when  the  blood  is  spilt  ? 

What  the  life  is  ?  where  the  soul  may  lie  ? 
Why  a  church  is  with  a  steeple  built : 
And  a  house  with  a  chimney-pot  ? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  what  ? 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  what  and  the 
why  I 

SUPPOSED   CONFESSIOlSrS 

OF  A  SECOND-RATE  SENSITIVE  MIND  NOT 
IN  UNITY  WITH  ITSELF. 

0  God  !  my  God  !  have  mercj'  now. 

1  faint,  I  fall.     Men  say  that  thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me, 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn, 
And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 
Among  the  thorns  that  girt  thy  brow. 
Wounding  thy  soul.  —  That  even  now, 
In  this  extremest  misery 

Of  ignorance,  I  should  require 

A  sign  !  and  if  a  bolt  of  fire 

Would  rive  the  slumberous  summer  noon 


While  I  do  pray  to  thee  alone, 

Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow  ! 

Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low  ? 

The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still  ? 

The  joy  I  had  in  my  free  will 

All  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like  grown  ? 

And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  thou, 

And  fixith  in  thee  ?     Men  pass  me  by  ; 

Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 

And  children  all  seem  full  of  thee  ! 

And  women  smile  with  saintlike  glances 

Like  thine  own  mother's  when  she  bowed 

Above  thee,  on  that  happy  morn 

When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud, 

And  thou  and  peace  to  earth  were  born. 

Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all  — 

—  I  one  of  them  :  my  brothers  they  : 

Brothers  in  Christ  —  a  world  of  peace 

And  confidence,  day  after  day  ; 
And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should 
cease. 

And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith  ! 
To  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death  ! 
And  at  a  burial  to  hear 

The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and  eat 
Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 
Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  gr'ef,  not  fear, 

With  hopeful  grief,  werepassingsweet  I 
A  grief  not  uninformed,  and  dull. 
Hearted  with  hope,  of  hope  as  full 
.\s  is  the  blood  with  life,  or  night 
And  a  dark  cloud  with  rich  moonlight. 
To  stand  beside  a  gi-ave,  and  see 
The  red  small  atoms  wherewith  we 
Are  built,  and  smile  in  calm,  and  say  — 
"These  little  motes  and  grains  shall  be 
Clothed  on  with  immortality 
More  glorious  than  the  noon  of  day. 

All  that  is  pass'd  into  the  flowers, 
And  into  beasts  and  other  men, 
And  all  the  Norland  whirlwind  showers 
From  open  vaults,  and  all  the  sea 
O'erwashes  with  shar]i  salts,  again 
Shall  fleet  together  all,  and  be 
Indued  with  immortality." 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  tnistful  infant  on  the  knee  ! 
Who  lets  his  waxen  fingers  play 
About  his  mother's  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother's  eyes. 
Thej'^  comfort  him  by  night  and  day, 
They  light  his  little  life  alway  ; 
He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes ; 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death, 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS. 


405 


Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise, 
Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is  ; 
And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart, 
Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth. 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell, 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart, 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth. 
Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air. 
Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtile,  warm,  and  golden  breath, 
Which  mixing  with  the  infant's  blood, 
Full  fills  him  with  beatitude. 
Oh  !  sure  it  is  a  special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt, 
To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple  mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 
Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 
As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 
Propped  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  upheld 
In  thine,  I  listened  to  thy  vows. 
For  me  outpoured  in  holiest  prayer  — 
For  me  unworthy  !  —  and  beheld 
The  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  that  knew 
The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith. 
And  the  clear  spirit  shining  through. 
Oh  !  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 
From  roots  which  strikesodeep?  whydare 
Paths  in  the  desert  ?     Could  not  I 
Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast  knelt, 
To  th'  earth  — until  the  ice  would  melt 
Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt  ? 
What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hadst  reared  —  to  brush  the 

dew 
From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay  ? 
Myself?     Is  it  thus?    Myself?     Had  I 
So  little  love  for  thee  ?     But  why 
Prevailed  not  thy  pure  prayers  ?  Whypray 
To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 
But  will  not  ?   Great  in  faith,  and  strong 
Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard  ?     What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 
Through  utter  dark  a  full-sailed  skiff, 
Unpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk  !  I  know 
At  matins  and  at  evensong, 
That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive, 
In  deep  and  daily  prayers  wonldst  strive 
To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 
Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur  still  — 


"  Bring  this  lamb  back  into  thy  fold. 
My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  thy  will." 
Wouldst  tell  me  I  must  brook  the  rod. 
And  chastisement  of  human  pride  ; 
That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 
Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God  ! 
That  hitherto  I  had  defied. 
And  had  rejected  God  —  that  Grace 
Would  drop  from  his  o'erbrimming  love. 
As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 
If  I  would  pray  —  that  God  would  move 
And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rock,  and 

thence. 
Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness. 
Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 
Which   would  keep  green  hope's  life. 

Alas  ! 
I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 
Or  sojourn  in  me.     I  am  void. 
Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then  ?    Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moored  and  rested  ?     Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope  waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-im  based  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a  mountain  tarn  ? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  meer  ? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and  paves 
The  other  ?    I  am  too  forlorn, 
Too  shaken  :  my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Moved  from  beneath  with  doubt  and  fear. 

"  Yet,"  said  I,  in  my  mom  of  youth. 
The  unsunned  freshness  of  my  strength. 
When  1  went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 
"  It  is  man's  privilege  to  doubt. 
If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length, 
Truth  may  stand  forth  unmoved  of  change, 
An  image  with  profulgent  brows. 
And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 
Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 
Of  lawless  airs  at  last  stood  out 
This  excellence  and  solid  form 
Of  constant  beauty.     For  the  Ox 
Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 
The  homM  vallevs  all  about. 
And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 
In  summerheats,  with  placid  lows 
Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 
About  his  hoof.     And  in  the  flocks 
The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year, 


406 


SONG. 


And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere, 
And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 
From  the  flowered  furrow.     In  a  time, 
Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 
Through  his  warm  heart :  and  then,  from 

whence 
He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 
A  shadow  ;  and  his  native  slope 
Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb, 
Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes, 
And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 
His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 
Shall  men  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 
As  a  young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream. 
Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on  ? 
Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 
Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that  seem, 
And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 
Our  double  nature,  and  compare 
All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 
If  one  there  be  ?  "  Ay  me  !  I  fear 
All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 
Some  must  clasp  Idols.     Yet,  my  God, 
Whom  call  I  Idol  ?     Let  thy  dove 
Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 
Be  unremembered,  and  thy  love 
Enlighten  me.     0  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

0  weary  life  !  0  weary  death  ! 
O  spirit  and  heai't  made  desolate  ! 
0  damned  vacillating  state  ! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 

His  eyes  in  eclipse, 
Pale-cold  his  lips. 
The  light  of  his  hopes  unfed. 
Mute  his  tongue. 
His  bow  unstrung 
With  the  tears  he  hath  shed. 
Backward  drooping  his  graceful  head, 
Love  is  dead  : 
His  last  arrow  is  sped  ; 
He  hath  not  another  dart  ; 
Go  —  carry  him  to  his  dark  deathbed  ; 
Bury  him  in  the  cold,  cold  heart  — 
Love  is  dead. 

0  truest  love  !  art  thou  forlorn. 

And  unrevenged  ?  thy  pleasant  wiles 
Forgotten,  and  thine  innocent  joy  ? 
Shall  hollow-hearted  apathy, 


The  cruellest  form  of  perfect  scorn, 
With  languor  of  most  hateful  smiles. 
For  ever  write, 
In  the  withered  light 
Of  the  tearless  eye. 
An  epitaph  that  all  may  spy  ? 
No  !  sooner  she  herself  shall  die. 

For  her  the  showers  shall  not  fall, 

Nor  the  roundsun  shine  thatshinethtoall; 

Her  light  shall  into  darkness  change  ; 
For  her  the  green  grass  shall  not  spring. 
Nor  the  rivers  flow,  nor  the  sweet  biids 
sing. 

Till  Love  have  his  full  revenge. 

TO   . 


Sainted  Juliet  !  dearest  name  ! 
If  to  love  be  life  alone, 
Divinest  Juliet, 
I  love  thee,  and  live  ;  and  yet 
liOve  unreturned  is  like  the  fragrant 
flame 
Folding  the  slaughter  of  the  sacrifice 

Offered  togods  upon  an  altar-throne ; 
My  heart  is  lighted  at  thine  eyes. 
Changed  into  fire,  and  blown  about  with 
sighs. 


SONG. 


r  THE  glooming  light 
Of  middle  night 
So  cold  and  white. 
Worn  Sorrow  sits  by  the  moaning  wave, 
Beside  her  are  laid 
Her  mattock  and  spade. 
For  she  hath  half  delved  her  own  deep 
grave. 
Alone  she  is  there  : 
Thewhite  clouds  drizzle  :  her  hair  falls 
loose  : 
Her  shoulders  are  bare  ; 
Her  tears  are  mixed  with  the  beaded 
dews. 


Death  standeth  by ; 

She  will  not  die  ; 

With  glazed  eye 
She  looks  at  her  grave  :  she  cannot  sleep; 

Ever  alone 

She  maketh  her  moan  : 
She  cannot  speak  :  she  can  only  weep. 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 


407 


For  she  will  not  hope. 
The  thick  snow  falls  on  her  flake  by 
flake, 
The  dull  wave  mourns  down 
the  slope, 
The  world  will  not  change,  and  her  heart 
will  not  break. 


SONG. 


The  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock 
Have  voices  sweet  and  clear  ; 
All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
They  from  the  blosmy  brere 
Call  to  the  fleetin»  year, 
If  that  he  would  them  hear 

And  stay. 

Alas  !  that  one  so  beautiful 

■  Should  have  so  dull  an  ear  ! 


Fair  year,  fair  year,  thy  children  call, 
But  thou  art  deaf  as  death  ; 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
When  thy  light  perisheth 
That  from  thee  issueth. 
Our  life  evanisheth  : 

0,  stay  ! 
Ahas  !  that  lips  so  cruel-dumb 
Should  have  so  sweet  a  breath  ! 


Fair  year,  with  brows  of  royal  love 
Thou  comest,  as  a  king. 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
Thy  golden  largess  fling, 
And  longer  hear  us  sing  ; 
Though  thou  art  fleet  of  wing, 

Yet  stay. 
Alas  !  that  eyes  so  full  of  light 
Should  be  so  wandering  ! 


Thy  locks  are  all  of  sunny  sheen 
In  rings  of  gold  yronne,* 

All  in  tlie  bloomed  May. 
We  |)ri'thee  pass  not  on  ; 
If  thou  dost  leave  the  sun, 
Delight  is  with  thee  gone. 

0,  stay  ! 
Thou  art  the  fairest  of  thy  feres, 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on. 

•  "  His  crispi  hair  in  rinifis  was  yronne." 

ClIAUCEK.  KMinhUt  Talt. 


SONG. 


Every  day  hath  its  night : 

Every  night  its  morn  : 
Thorough  dark  and  bright 
Winged  hours  are  borne  ; 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 
Seasons  flower  and  fade  ; 
Golden  calm  and  storm 
Mingle  day  by  day. 
There  is  no  bright  form 
Doth  not  cast  a  shade  — 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 


When  we  laugh,  and  our  mirth 

Apes  the  hapj)y  vein. 
We  're  so  kin  to  earth, 
Pleasaunce  fathers  pain  — 
Ah !  welaway  ! 
Madness  laugheth  loud  : 
Laughter  bringeth  tears : 
Eyes  are  worn  away 
Till  the  end  of  fears 
Cometh  in  the  shroud. 
Ah  !  welaway ! 


All  is  change,  woe  or  weal ; 
Joy  is  Sorrow's  brother  ; 
Grief  and  gladness  steal 
Symbols  of  each  other  : 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 
Larks  in  heaven's  cope 
Sing  :  the  culvers  mourn 
All  the  livelong  day. 
Be  not  all  forlorn  : 
Let  us  weep  in  hope  — 
Ah  I  welaway ! 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 

When  will  thestreambeaweary  of  flowing 

Under  my  eye  ? 
When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of  blowing 

Over  the  sky  ? 
When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of  fleeting? 
When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of  beating  f 

And  nature  die  ? 
Never,  0  never  !  nothing  will  die  ; 

The  stream  flows, 

The  wind  blows. 

The  cloud  fleets. 

The  heart  beats. 
Nothing  will  die. 


408 


HERO   TO   LEANDER. 


Nothing  will  die ; 

All  things  will  change 
Through  eternity. 

'T  is  the  world's  winter  ; 
Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago. 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 

But  spring  a  new  comer  — 
A  spring  rich  and  strange, 

Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round, 

Through  and  through, 
Here  and  there, 
Till  the  air 
And  the  gi'ound 
Shall  be  hlled  with  life  anew. 
The  world  was  never  made ; 
It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 
So  let  the  wind  range  ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ever  will  be 
Through  eternity. 
Nothing  was  born  ; 
Nothing  will  die ; 
All  things  will  change. 


ALL   THINGS  WILL  DIE. 

CLEARLYthe  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flow- 
ing 
Under  my  eye  ; 
Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds  are 
blowing 
Over  the  sky. 
One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are 

fleeting ; 
Every  heart  this  ALay  morning  in  joyance 
is  beating 
Full  merrily  ; 
Yet  all  things  must  die. 
The  stream  will  cease  to  flow ; 
The  wind  will  cease  to  blow  ; 
The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet ; 
The  heart  will  cease  to  beat  ; 
For  all  things  must  die. 

All  things  must  die. 
Spring  will  come  nevermore. 

0,  vanity  ! 
Death  waits  at  the  door. 
See  !  our  friends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and  merrymaking. 
We  are  called  —  we  must  go. 
Laid  low,  very  low, 
In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 
The  merry  glees  are  still : 


The  voice  of  the  bh-d 
Shall  no  more  be  heard, 
Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 
0,  misery  ! 
Hark  !  death  is  calling 
While  I  speak  to  ye, 
The  jaw  is  falling. 
The  red  cheek  paling. 
The  strong  limbs  failing ; 
Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing ; 
The  eyeballs  fixing. 
Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell : 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 

The  old  earth 

Had  a  birth, 

As  all  men  know 

Long  ago. 
And  the  old  earth  must  die. 
So  let  the  warm  winds  range. 
And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore  ; 
For  even  and  mom 
Ye  will  never  see 
Through  eternity. 
All  things  were  bom. 
Ye  will  come  nevermore. 
For  all  things  must  die. 

HERO   TO   LEANDER. 

0  GO  not  yet,  my  love  ! 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast ; 
The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven 
above, 

And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 
0,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again. 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last  ! 
0  kiss  me  ere  we  part ; 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart ! 
My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than  the  bosom 
of  the  main. 
0  joy  !  0  bliss  of  blisses  ! 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 
Come  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses. 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 
Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses. 

And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy  limbs, 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir  ; 
Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims. 

I  have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleasant 
myrrh  ; 
Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  wander  hence  to-night, 

I  '11  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 
To-night  the  roaring  brine 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


409 


Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses  ; 
The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 
Will  be  both  blue  and  calm  ; 
And  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with  a 
kiss  as  soft  as  mine. 
No  Western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea, 
And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander, 

My  soul  must  follow  thee  ! 
0  go  not  yet,  my  love  ! 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low  ; 
The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 

Those  marble  steps  below. 
The  turret-stairs  are  wet 

That  lead  into  the  sea. 
Leander  !  go  not  yet. 
Tlie  pleasant  stars  have  set : 
0,  go  not,  go  not  yet, 

Or  I  will  follow  thee  ! 


THE  MYSTIC. 

Angels  have  talked  with  him,  and  showed 

him  thrones  : 
Ye  knew  him  not ;  he  was  not  one  of  ye. 
Ye  scorned   him  with  an  undisceming 

scorn  : 
Ye  could  not  read  the  marvel  in  his  eye. 
The  still  serene  abstraction  :  he  hath  felt 
The  vanities  of  after  and  before  ; 
Albeit,  his  spirit  and  his  secret  heart 
The  stem  experiences  of  converse  lives. 
The  linked  woes  of  many  a  fiery  change 
Hatl  purified,  and  chastened,  and  made 

free. 
Always  there  stood  before  him,  night  and 

day, 
Of  wayward  vary-colored  circumstance 
The  imperishable  presences  serene. 
Colossal,  without  form,  or  sense,  orsound. 
Dim  shadows  but  unwaning  presences 
Fourfaced  to  four  comers  of  the  sky  : 
And  yet  again,  three  shadows,  fronting 

one. 
One  forward,  one  respectant,  three  but 

one  ; 
And  yet  again,  again  and  evermore. 
For  the  two  first  were  not,  butonlyseemed. 
One  shadow  in  the  midst  of  a  great  light. 
One  refiex  from  eternity  on  time, 
One  mighty  countenance  of  perfect  calm, 
Awful  with  most  invariable  eyes. 
For  him  the  silent  congregated  hours. 
Daughters  of  lime,  divinely  tall,  beneath 
Severe  and  youthful  brows,  with  shining 

eyes 


Smilingagodlikesmile  (the innocent  light 
Of  earliest  youth   pierced  through  and 

through  with  all 
Keen  knowledges  of  low-embowed  eld) 
Upheld,  and  ever  hold  aloft  the  cloud 
Which  droops  low-hung  on  either  gate  of 

life. 
Both  birth  and  death  :  he  in  the  centre 

tixt. 
Saw  far  on  each  side  through  the  grated 

gates 
Most  pale  and  clear  and  lovely  distances. 
He  often  lying  broad  awake,  and  yet 
Remaining  from  the  body,  and  apart 
Inintellectand  powerandwill,  hath  heard 
Time  flowing  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
And  all  things  creeping  to  a  day  of  doom. 
How  could  ye  know  him  ?    Ye  were  yet 

within 
The  narrower  circle  :  he  had  wellnigh 

reached 
The  last,  which  with  a  region  of  white 

flame. 
Pure  without  heat,  into  a  larger  air 
Upburning.  and  an  ether  of  black  blue, 
Investeth  and  ingirds  all  other  lives. 

THE  GRASSHOPPER. 
I. 
Voice  of  the  summer  wind, 
Joy  of  the  summer  plain. 
Life  of  the  summer  hours, 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along. 
No  Tithon  thou  as  poets  feign 
(Shanle  fall  'era  they  are  deaf  and  blind), 
But  an  insect  lithe  and  strong, 
Bowing  the  seedc^d  summer  flowers. 
Prove  their  falsehood  and  thy  quarrel, 

Vaulting  on  thine  airy  feet. 
Clap  thy  shielded  sides  and  carol, 
Carol  clearly,  chirrup  sweet. 
Thou  art  a  mailed  warrior  in  youth  and 
strength  complete ; 
Armed  cap-a-]>ie 
Full  fair  to  see  ; 
Unknowing  fear, 
Undreading  loss, 
A  gallant  cavalier. 
Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche. 
In  sunlight  and  in  shadow. 
The  Bayard  of  the  meadow. 

II. 
I  would  dwell  with  thee. 

Merry  grasshopper, 
Thou  art  so  glad  and  free, 


410 


THE  TEARS   OF   HEAVEN. 


And  as  light  as  air  ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  or  tears, 
Thou  hast  no  coinpt  of  years, 
No  withered  immortality, 
But  a  short  youth  sunny  and  free. 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along, 

Soon  thy  joy  is  over, 
A  summer  of  loud  song, 

And  slumbers  in  the  clover. 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil 
In  thine  hour  of  love  and  revel, 

In  thy  heat  of  summer  pride. 
Pushing  the  thick  roots  aside 
Of  the  singing  flowered  grasses, 
That    brush    thee    with    their    silken 

tresses  ? 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil. 
Shooting,  singing,  ever  springing 

In  and  out  the  emerald  glooms, 
Ever  leaping,  ever  singing. 

Lighting  on  the  golden  blooms  ? 


LOVE,  PRIDE,  AND  FORGETFUL- 

NESS. 

Eke  yet   my  heart    was  sweet   Love's 

tomb. 
Love  labored  honey  busily. 
I  was  the  hive,  and  Love  the  bee. 
My  heart  the  honeycomb. 
One  very  dark  and  chilly  night 
Pride  came  beneath  and  held  a  light. 

The  cruel  vapors  went  through  all. 
Sweet  Love  was  withered  in  his  cell  : 
Pride  took  Love's  sweets,  and  by  a  spell 
Did  change  them  into  gall  ; 
And  Memory,  though  fed  by  Pride, 
Did  wax  so  thin  on  gall. 
Awhile  she  scarcely  lived  at  all. 
What  marvel  that  she  died  ? 


CHORUS 

IN   AN   UNPUBLISHED    DRAMA,    WRITTEN 
VERY   EARLY. 

The  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven, 

The  rapid  waste  of  roving  sea, 
The  fountain-pregnant  mountains  riven 

To  shapes  of  wildest  anarchy, 
By  secret  fire  and  midnight  storms 

That  wander  roimd  their  windy  cones. 
The  subtle  life,  the  countless  forms 

Of  living  things,  the  wondrous  tones 
Of  man  and  beast  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 


The  day,  the  diamonded  night, 

The  echo,  feeble  child  of  sound. 
The  heavy  thunder's  griding  might, 

The  herald  lightning's  starry  bound, 
The  vocal  spring  of  bursting  bloom. 

The  naked  summer's  glowing  birth, 
The  troublous  autumn's  sallow  gloom. 

The  hoarhead  winter  paving  earth 
With  sheeny  white,  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 

Each  sun  which  from  the  centre  flings 

Grand  music  and  redundant  fire. 
The  burning  belts,  the  mighty  rings. 

The  murm'rous  planets'  rolling  choir. 
The  globe-filled  arch  that,  cleaving  air, 

Lost  in  its  own  effulgence  sleeps. 
The  lawless  comets  as  they  glare. 
And  thunder  through  the  sapphire  deeps 
In  wayward  strength,  and  full  of 

strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 

LOST  HOPE. 

You  cast  to  ground  the  hope  which  once 
was  mine : 
But  did  the  while  your  harsh  decree 
deplore. 
Embalming  with  sweet  tears  the  vacant 
shrine. 
My  heart,  where  Hope  had  been  and 
was  no  more. 

So  on  an  oaken  sprout 
A  goodly  acorn  grew  ; 
But  winds  from    heaven    shook   the 
acorn  out. 
And  filled  the  cup  with  dew. 

THE  TEARS   OF   HEAVEN. 

Heaven  weeps  above  the  earth  all  night 
till  morn. 

In  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to  weep, 

Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state 
forlorn 

With  self-wrought  evil  of  unnumbered 
years. 

And  doth  the  fruit  of  her  dishonor  reap. 

And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back 
her  tears 

Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and  deep. 

And  showering  down  the  glory  of  light- 
some day. 

Smiles  on  the  earth's  worn  brow  to  win 
her  if  she  may. 


SONNETS. 


411 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 

0  MAIDEX,  fresher  than  the  first  green  leaf 
With  which  the  fearful  sj)ringtide  flecks 

the  lea, 
Weep  not,  Almeida,  that  I  said  to  thee 
That  thou  hast  half  my  heart,  for  bitter 

grief 
Doth  hold  the  other  half  in  sovranty. 
Thou  art  my  heart's  sun  in  love's  crys- 
talline : 
Yet  on  both  sides  at  once  thou  canst  not 

shine  : 
Thine  is  the  bright  side  of  my  heart, 

and  thine 
My  heart's  day,  but  the  shadow  of  my 

heart. 
Issue  of  its  own  substance,my  heart's  night 
Thou  canst  not  lighten  even  with  thy  light, 
All-powerful  in  beauty  as  thou  art. 
Almeida,  if  my  heart  were  substanceless. 
Then  might  thy  rays  pass  through  to 

the  other  side. 
So  swiftly,  that  they  nowhere  would  abide. 
But  lose  themselves  in  utter  emptiness. 
Half-light,    half-shadow,   let   my  spirit 

sleep  ; 
They  never  learned  to  love  who  never 

knew  to  weep. 


TO  A  LADY  SLEEPING. 

O  THOU  whose  fringed  lids  I  gaze  upon. 
Through  whose  dim  brain  the  winged 

dreams  are  borne. 
Unroof  the  slirines  of  clearest  vision. 
In  honor  of  the  silver-flecked  morn  ; 
Long  hath  the  white  wave  of  the  virgin 

liglit 
Driven  back  the  billow  of  the  dreamful 

dark. 
Thou  all  unwittingly  prolongest  night. 
Though  long  ago  listeniiigthe  poised  lark, 
With  eyes  dropt  downward  through  the 

blue  serene, 
Over  heaven's  parapet  the  angels  lean. 


SONNET. 

Could  I  outwear  my  present  state  of  woe 
With  one  brief  winter,  and  indue  i'  the 

spring 
I  lues  of  fresh  youth,  and  mightily  outgrow 
The  wan  dark  coil  of  faded  .suffering  — 
Forth  in  tlie  pride  of  Ixiauty  i.ssuing 
A  sheeny  suake,  the  light  of  vernal  bowers, 


Moving  his  crest  to  all  sweet  plots  of 
flowers 

And  watered  valleys  where  the  young 
birds  sing  ; 

Could  I  thus  hope  my  lost  delight's  re- 
newing, 

1  straightly  would  command  the  tears  to 
creep 

From  my  charged  lids  ;  but  inwardly  I 
M'eep  , 

Some  vital  heat  as  yet  my.heart  is  wooing : 

That  to  itself  hath  drawn  the  frozen  rain 

From  my  cold  eyes,  and  melted  it  again. 


SONNET. 

Though  Night  hath  climbed  her  peak 

of  highest  noon, 
And  bitter  blasts  the  screaming  autumn 

Avhirl, 
All  night  through  archways  of  the  bridged 

pearl. 
And  portals  of  pure  silver,  walks  the  moon. 
Walk  on,  my  soul,  nor  crouch  to  .agon3% 
Turn  cloud  to  light,  and  bitterness  to  joy, 
And  dross  to  gold  with  glorious  alchemy. 
Basing  thy  throne  above  the  world's  an- 
noy. 
Reign  thou  above  the  storms  of  sorrow 

and  ruth 
That  roar  beneath  ;  unshaken  peace  hath 

Avon  thee  ; 
So  .shalt  thou  pierce  the  woven  glooms 

of  truth  ; 
So  shall  the  blessing  of  the  meek  be  on 

thee  ; 
So  in  thine  hour  of  dawn,  the  body's  youth, 
An  honorable  eld  shall  come  upon  thee. 


SONNET. 

Shall thehag  ?>il  die  with  child  of  Oood, 
Or  propagate  again  her  loathed  kind, 
Thronging  the  cells  of  the  diseased  mind, 
Hateful  with  hanging  cheeks,  a  withered 

brood. 
Though  hourly  jjastured  on  the  .salient 

blood  ? 
0  that  the  wind  which  bloweth  cold  or 

heat 
Would  shatterand  o'erbear  the  brazen  In-at 
Of  their  broad  vans,  and  in  the  .solitude 
Of  middle   space   confound   them,  and 

blow  back 
Their    wild    cries    down    their    cavern 

throats,  and  slake 


412 


THE  KRAKEN. 


With   points  of  Wast-bome   hail   their 

heated  ej'iie  ! 
So  their  wan  limbs  no  more  might  come 

between 
The  moon  and  the  moon's  reflex  in  the 

night, 
Nor  blot  with  floating  shades  the  solar 

light. 

SONNET. 

The  pallid  thiinder-stricken  sigh  forgain, 
Down  an  ideal  stream  they  ever  float, 
And  sailing  on  Pactolns  in  a  boat. 
Drown  soul  and  sense,  while  wistfully 

they  strain 
Weak   eyes  upon  the  glistening  sands 

that  robe 
The  understream.     The  wise,  could  he 

behold 
Catliedraled  caverns  of  thick-ribbed  gold 
And  branching  silversof  the  central  globe, 
Would  marvel  from  so  beautiful  a  sight 
How  scorn  and  ruin,  pain  and  hate  could 

flow  : 
But  Hatred  in  a  gold  cave  sits  below  ; 
Pleached  with  her  hair,  in  mail  of  argent 

light 
Shot  into  gold,  a  snake  her  forehead  clips, 
And  skins  the  color  from  her  trembling 


LOVE. 


Thou,  from  the  first,  unborn,  undying 

love, 
Albeit  we  gaze  not  on  thy  glories  near. 
Before  the  face  of  God  didst  breathe  and 

move. 
Though   night  and  pain  and   ruin  and 

death  reign  here. 
Thou  foldest,  like  a  golden  atmosphere, 
The  very  throne  of  the  eternal  God  : 
Passing  through  thee  the  edicts  of  his  fear 
Are  mellowed  into  music,  borne  abroad 
•  By  the  loud  winds,  though  they  uprend 

the  sea, 
Even  from  its  central  deeps :  thine  empery 
Is  over  all ;  thou  wilt  not  brook  eclipse  ; 
Thou  goest  and  returnest  to  His  lips 
Like  lightning:  thou  dost  everbrood above 
The  silence  of  all  hearts,  unutterable  Love. 


To  know  thee  is  all  wisdom,  and  old  age 
Is  but  to  know  thee  :  dimly  we  behold  thee 


Athwart  tlie  veils  of  evils  which  infold 

thee. 
We  beat  u])on  our  aching  hearts  in  rage  ; 
We  cry  for  thee  ;  we  deem   the   Avorld 

thy  tomb. 
As  dwellers  in  lone  planets  look  upon 
The  mighty  disk  of  their  majestic  sun. 
Hollowed  in  awful  cha&ms  of  wheeling 

gloom, 
Making  their  day  dim,  so  we  gaze  on  thee. 
Come,  thou  of  many  crowns,  white-robeJ 

love. 
Oh  !   rend  the  veil  in  twain  :   all  men 

adore  thee  ; 
Heaven  crieth  after  thee  ;  earth  waiteth 

for  thee  ; 
Breathe  on  thy  winged  throne,  and  it 

shall  move 
In  music  and  in  light  o'er  land  and  sea. 


And  now  —  methinks  I  gaze  upon  thee 

now. 
As  on  a  serpent  in  his  agonies 
Awe-stricken  Indians;  whattimelaidlow 
And  crushing  the  thick  fi-agrant  reeds 

he  lies, 
When  the  new  year  warm-breathed  on 

the  Earth, 
Wcaiting  to  light  him   with  her  purple 

skies, 
Calls  to  him  by  the  fountain  to  uprise. 
Ali"eady  with  the  pangs  of  a  new  birth 
Strain  the  hot  spheres  of  his  convulsed 

eyes. 
And  in  his  writhings  awful  hues  begin 
To  wander  down  his  sable-sheeny  sides, 
Like   light   on   troubled   waters :    from 

within 
Anon  he  rusheth  forth  with  merry  din, 
And  in  him  light  and  joy  and  strength 

abides  ; 
And  from  his  brows  a  crown  of  living  light 
Looks  through  the  thick-stemmed  woods 

by  day  and  night. 


THE  KRAKEN. 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep ; 
Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abj'smal  sea. 
His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded  sleep. 
The  Kraken  sleepeth  :  faintest  sunlights 

flee 
Abouthis  shadowy  .sides :  abovehim  swell 
Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth  and 

height ; 


DUALISMS. 


413 


And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light, 
From  many  a  wondrous  grot  and  aeciet 

cell 
Unnumbered  and  enormous  polypi 
Winnow  with  giant  fins  the  slumbering 

green. 
There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 
Battening  upon  huge   seaworms  in  his 

sleep, 
Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the  deep  ; 
Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be  seen. 
In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the  sur 

face  die. 


EXGLISH  WAR-SONG. 

Who  fears  to  die  ?   Who  fears  to  die  ? 
Is  there  any  here  who  fears  to  die  ? 
He  shall  find  what  he  fears  ;  and  none 
shall  grieve 
For  the  man  who  fears  to  die  ; 
But   the  withering  scorn  of  the  many 
shall  cleave 
To  the  man  who  fears  to  die. 

CHORUS. 

Shout  for  England  ! 
Ho  !  for  England  ! 
George  for  England  ! 
Merry  England  ! 
England  for  aye  ! 

Thehollowatheart  shall  crouch  forlorn, 
He   shall  eat   the   bread  of  common 
scorn  ; 
It  shall  be  steeped  in  the  salt,  salt  tear. 
Shall  be  steei>ed  in  his  own  salt  tear  : 
Far  better,  far  l)etter  he  never  were  born 
Than  to  shame  merry  England  here. 
Cho,  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy  ; 
Hark  !  he  shouteth  —  the  ancient  ene- 
my ! 
On  the  ridge  of  the  hill  his  banners  rise  ; 

They  stream  like  fire  in  the  skies  ; 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high 
Till  it  dazzle  and  blind  his  eyes. 
Cho.  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

Come  along  !  we  alone  of  the  earth  are 

free  ; 
The  child  in  our  cradles  is  bolder  than 

he; 
For  where  is  the  heart  and  strength  of 

slaves  ? 


Oh  !  where  is  the  strength  of  slaves  ? 
He  is  weak  !  we  are  strong  :  he  a  slave, 
we  are  free ; 
Come  along  !  we  will  dig  their  graves. 
Cho.  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy  ; 
Will  he  dare  to  battle  with  the  free  ? 
Spur  along  !  spur  amain  !  charge  to  the 
fight : 
Charge  !  charge  to  the  fight  ! 
Hold  u])  the  Lion  of  England  on  high  ! 
Shout  for  God  and  our  right  ! 
Cuo.  — Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

NATIONAL  SONG. 

There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  hearts  like  Ihiglish  hearts, 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

CHORUS. 

For  the  French  the  Pope  may  shrive  'em, 
For  the  devil  a  whit  we  heed  'em  : 
As  for  the  French.  God  speed  'em 

Unto  their  heart's  desire, 
And  the  merry  devil  drive  'em 

Through  the  water  and  the  fire. 

FULL   CHORUS. 

Our  glory  is  our  freedom, 
We  lord  it  o'er  the  sea  ; 
We  are  the  sons  of  freedom, 
We  are  free. 

Tliere  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives, 

So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  Ihj. 
There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  tht  light  of  day  be  ; 
Theie  are  no  Tiiaids  like  English  maids, 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 
Cho.  —  For  the  French,  etc. 

DUALISMS. 

Two  bees  within  a  crj-stal  flowerbell 
rocked, 
Hum  a  lovrlay  to  the  west-wind  ut 
noontide. 


414 


THE  SEA  FAIRIES. 


Both  alike,  they  buzz  together, 
Both  alike,  they  hum  together, 
Through  and  through  the  flowered 
heather. 
Wheze  in  a  creeping  cove  the  wave  un- 
shocked 
Lays  itself  calm  and  wide. 
Over  a  stream  two  birds  of  glancing 

feather 
Do  woo  each  other,  carollingtogether. 
Both  alike,  they  glide  together. 

Side  by  side  ; 
Both  alike,  they  sing  together, 
Arching  blue-glossed  necks  beneath  the 
purple  weather. 

Two  children  lovelier  than  Love  adown 

the  lea  are  singing, 
As  they  gambol,  lily-garlands  ever  string- 
ing : 
Both  in   blosmwhite  silk  are 
frocked  : 
Like,  unlike,  they  roam  together 
Under  a  summer  vault  of  golden 

weather : 
Like,  unlike,  they  sing  together 
Side  by  side, 
MidMav's  darling  golden  lock- 
ed, 
Summer's  tanliug  diemond  eyed. 

WE  ARE  FREE. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 

Leaning  upon  the  winger*  sea. 
Breathed  low  around  the  Dlling  earth 

With  mellow  preludes,  ''We  are  free." 
The  streams  through  many  a  lilied  row 

Down-carolling  to  the  ciisped  sea. 
Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 

Atween  the  blossoms,  "We  are  free." 

THE  SEA  FAIRIES.* 

Slow  sailed  the  weary  mariners,  and 
saw 

Between  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
ning f  jam 

White  limbs  anrobed  in  a  crystal  air, 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 
prest 

To  little  harps  of  gold  :  and  while  they 
muged, 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear. 

Shrill  music  reached  them  on  the  mid- 
dle sea. 

•  Original  form. 


Whither  awaj',  whither  away,  whither 

away  ?     Fly  no  more  : 
Whither  aw.ay  wi'    the  singing   sail  ? 
whither  away  wi'  the  oar  ? 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field 
and  the  happy  blossoming  shore  ? 
Weary  mariners,  hither  away. 

One  and  all,  one  and  all. 
Weary  mariners,  come  and  play  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day  ; 
Furl  the  sail  and  the  foam  will  fall 
From  the  prow  !     One  and  all 
Furl  the  sail !     Drop  the  oar ! 
Leap  ashore. 
Know  danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no 

more. 
Whither  away  wi'  the  sail  and  the  oar? 
Drop  the  oar. 
Leap  ashore. 
Fly  no  more  ! 
Whither  away  wi'  the  sail  ?  whither  away 
wi'  the  oar  ? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  foun- 
tain calls  : 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  water- 
falls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea  ; 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover- 
hill  swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea. 
Merrily  carol  the  revelling  gales 

Over  the  islands  free  : 
From   the  gi-een    seabanks    the   rose 
down  trails 
To  the  happy  brimmed  sea. 
Come  hither,  come  hither  and  be  our 
lords. 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 
We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak 
sweet  words. 
0  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glis- 
ten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  revelry  ; 
0  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glis- 
ten, 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  gold- 
en chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Ye  will  not  find  so  happy  a  shore, 
Weary  mariners  !  all  the  world  o'er  ; 

0,  fly  no  more  ! 
Hearken  ye,  hearken  ye,  sorrow  shall 
darken  ye, 
Danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no  more ; 


TO  — 

Whither  away  ? 
Dro]i  the  oar ; 
Hither  away 
Leap  ashore  ; 
O  fly  no  more  —  no  more  : 
Whith(!r  away,  whither  away,  whither 
away  with  the  sail  and  the  oar  ? 


Ol  peovTe<i. 


All  thoughts,  all  creeds,  all  dreams  are 
true. 

All  visions  wild  and  strange  ; 
Man  is  the  measure  of  all  truth 

Unto  himself.     All  truth  is  change, 


415 


All  men  -do  walk  in  sleep,  and  all 
Have  faith  in  that  they  dream  : 

For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 
Aud  all  tilings  flow  like  a  stream. 


There  is  no  rest,  no  calm,  no  pause. 

Nor  good  nor  ill,  nor  light  nor  shade. 
Nor  essence  nor  eternal  laws  : 

For  nothing  is,  but  all  is  made. 
But  if  1  dreaui  that  all  these  are, 

They  are  to  me  for  that  1  dream  ; 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all. 

And  all  things  How  like  a  stream. 

Argal  —  this  very  opinion  is  only  trae 
relatively  to  the  flowing  philosophers. 


POEMS   PUBLISHED   IN"  THE  EDITION  OF   1833, 
AND   OMITTED   IN  LATER  EDITIONS. 


SONNET. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit  fierce  and 

free. 
Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down  alone. 
With   the  selfsame  impulse  wherewith 

he  was  thrown 
From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing 

lea  :  — 
Which  with  increasing  might  doth  for- 
ward flee 
By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape, 

and  isle. 
And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 
Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many  a 

mile. 
Mine  be  the  Power  which  ever  to  its  sw.ay 
Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by  degrees 
May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow  ; 
Evi'H  as  the  great  gulfstream  of  Florida 
P'loats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 
The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mexico. 


TO 


All  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof. 
Nor  wandered  into  other  ways  ; 

1  have  not  lacked  thy  mild  reproof. 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise, 
But  fife  is  full  of  weary  days. 


Shake  hands,  my  friend,  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go. 

Shake  hands  once  more  :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far — far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


When,  in  the  darkness  over  me. 
The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape. 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree. 
Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful  crape. 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 


And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery  gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 

And  tiirough  damp  holts,  new  flushed 

with  May, 
Ring  sudden  laughters  of  the  Jay  ; 


Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will. 
And  on  my  clay  the  darnels  grow. 

Come  only  when  the  days  are  still. 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow, 


If  thou  art  blest,  my  mother's  smfle 
Uudimmed,  if  bees  are  on  the  wing  ; 


416 


THE   IIESPERIDES. 


Then  cease,  my  friend,  a  little  Avliile, 
That  I  may  hear  the  throstle  sing 
His  bridal  song,  the  boast  of  spring. 


Sweet  as  the  noise  in  parched  plains 
Of  bubbling  wells  that  fret  the  stones 

(If  any  sense  in  nie  remains), 

Thy  words  will  be  ;  tliy  cheerful  tones 
As  welcome  to  my  crumbling  bones. 


BONAPARTE. 

He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts 

of  oak. 
Madman  !  —  to  chain  with  chains,  and 

bind  with  bands 
That  island  (]ueen  that  sways  the  floods 

and  lands 
From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight 

woke. 
When  from  her  wooden  walls,  lit  by  sure 

hands. 
With  thunders,  and  with  lightnings,  and 

with  smoke. 
Peal  after  peal,  the  British  battle  broke. 
Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic  sands. 
We  taught  him   lowlier  moods,   wheii 

Elsinore 
Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant  sea, 
Rocking  with  shattered  spars,  with  sud- 
den fires 
Flamed  over  :  at  Trafalgar  yet  once  more 
We  taught  him  :  late  he  learned  humility 
Perforce,  like  those  whom  Gideon  schooled 

with,  briers. 


SONNETS. 


0  BEATTTT,   passing   beauty !    sweetest 

Sweet ! 
How  canst  thou  let  me  waste  my  youth 
in  sighs  ? 

1  only  ask  to  sit  beside  thy  feet. 

Thou  knowest  1  dare  not  look  into 
thine  eyes. 
Might  I  but  kiss  thy  hand  !     I  dare  not 
fold 
My  arms  about  thee  —  scai-cely  dare  to 
speak. 
And  nothing  seems  to  me  so  wild  and  bold, 
As  with  one  kiss  to  touch  thy  blessed 
cheek. 


Methinks  if  I  should  kiss  thee,  no  control 
Within  the  thrilling  brain  could  keep 

afloat 
The  subtle  spirit.    Even  while  I  spoke. 
The  bare  word  kiss  hath  made  my  inner 
soul 
To  tremble  like  a  lutestring,  ere  the 

note 
Hath  melted  in  the  silence  that  it  broke. 


But  were  I  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be. 
What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of  the 

earth. 
And  range  ofevil between  death  and  birth. 
That  I  should  fear,  —  if  I  were  loved  by 

thee? 
All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of  pain 
Clear  Love  would  ])ierce  and  cleave,  if 

thou  wert  mine, 
As  I  have  heard  that,  somewhere  in  the 

main. 
Fresh-water  springs   come  up   through 

bitter  brine. 
'Twere  joy,  not  fear,  clasped  hand-in- 
hand  with  thee, 
To  wait  for  death  —  mute  —  careless  of 

all  ills, 
A])art  upon  a  mountain,  though  the  surge 
Of  some  new  deluge  from  a  thousand 

hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the 

gorge 
Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 

THE  HESPERIDES. 

"  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 
That  siujj  about  the  golden  tree." 

Comut. 

The  North -wind  fall'n,  in  the  new-starred 

night 
Zidonian  Hanno,  voyaging  beyond 
The  hoary  promontory  of  Soloe 
Past  Thymiaterion,  in  calmed  bays, 
Between  the  southern  and  the  western 

Horn, 
Heardneitherwarblingofthenightingale, 
Nor  melody  of  the  Libyan  lotus  flute 
Blown  seaward  from  the  shore  ;  but  from 

a  slope 
That  ran  bloom-bright  into  the  Atlantic 

blue. 
Beneath  a  highland  leaning  down  a  weight 
Of  cliffs,  and  zoned  below  with  cedar  shade, 
Came  voices,  like  the  voices  in  a  dream, 
Continuous,  till  he  reached  the  outer  sea. 


THE   IIESPERIDES. 


417 


Tlie  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the 

hallowed  fmit, 
Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily. 
Singing  airily, 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 
Kound  about  all  is  mute, 
As  the  snow-tield  on  the  mountain -peaks, 
As  the  sand-tield  at  the  mouutaiu-t'oot. 
Crocodiles  in  brinj'  creeks 
Sleep  and  stir  not :  all  is  mute. 
If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  measure. 
We  sliall  lose  eternal  pleasure, 
Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 
Laugli  not  loudly  :  wiitch  the  treasure 
Of  the  wisdom  of  the  West. 
In  a  corner  wisdom  wliisixirs.     Fire  and 

tiiree 
(Let  it  not  be  preached  abroad)  make  an 

awful  mystery. 
For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music 

bloweth  ; 
Evennore  it  is  born  anew  ; 
And  the  sap  to  threefold  umsic  floweth. 
From  the  root 
Drawn  in  the  d.vrk. 
Up  to  the  fruit. 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark, 
Liquid  gold,  honcysweet,  thro'  and  thro'. 
Keen-eyed  Sisters,  singing  aiiily, 
Looking  warily 
Every  way. 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day. 
Lest  one  from  the  East  come  and  take  it 

away. 


Father  Ilespcr,   Father  Hesper,  watch, 

watch,  ever  and  aye, 
Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a  silver 

eye. 
Father,  twinkle  not  thy  steadfast  sight ; 
BLingdoms  lapse,  and  cliraates  change, 

and  races  die  ; 
Honor  comes  with  mystery  ; 
Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 
Number,  tell  them  over  and  number 
How  many  tlie  mystic  fruit-tree  holds 
Lest  the  red-coml)ed  dragon  slumber 
Rolled  together  in  purjde  folds. 
Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he  wink,  and 

the  golden  apple  be  stol'n  away. 
For  his  ancient  heart  is  drunk  with  over- 

watchiugs  night  and  day, 


Round  about  the  hallowed  fruit -tr^e 

curled  — • 
Sing  away,  sing  aloud  evermore  iu  the 

wind,  without  stop. 
Lest  his  scaled  eyelid  drop, 
For  lie  is  older  than  the  world. 
If  he  waken,  we  waken, 
Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 
If  he  sleep,  we  sTecp, 
Dropping  the  eyelid  over  the  eyes. 
If  the  golden  a|i]tle  be  taken. 
The  woild  will  be  overwise. 
Five  links,  a  golden  chain,  are  we, 
Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sistei-s  three, 
Bound  about  the  golden  tree. 


Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch, 

watch,  night  and  day. 
Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be  healed, 
The  glory  unsealed. 
The  golden  apple  stolen  away, 
And  the  ancient  secret  revealed. 
Look  froni  west  to  east  along  : 
Father,  old  Himala  weakens,  Caucasus 

is  bold  and  strong. 
Wandering  waters  unto  wandering  waters 

call ; 
Le"t  them  clash  together,  foam  and  fall. 
Out  of  watchings,  out  of  wiles. 
Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 
All  things  are  not  told  to  all. 
Half-round  the  mantling  night  is  drawn, 
Puri)le  fringed  with  even  and  dawn, 
Hesper  hateth  Phosphor,  evening  hateth 

morn. 


Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  redolent 

breath 
Of  this  warm  sea-wind  ripeneth. 
Arching  the  billow  in  his  sleep  ; 
But  the  land-wind  waiidereth, 
Broken  by  the  highland-steep. 
Two  streams  upon  the  violet  deep  ; 
For  the  western  sun  and  the  western  star, 
And  the  low  W'jst-wind,  breathing  afar. 
The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night 
Make  the  apjile  holy  and  bri;;ht  ; 
Holy  and  bri^^ht,  round  and  full,  bright 

and  blest, 
Mellowed  in  a  land  of  rest  ; 
Watch  it  warily  day  and  night  ; 
All  good  things  are  in  the  wt^st. 
Till  mid  noon  the  cool  east  light 
Is  shut  out  by  the  tall  hillbrow  ; 


4' 


418 


SONG. 


But  when  the  full-faced  sunset  yellowly 
Stays  on  the  iiowering  arch  of  the  hough, 
The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mellowly, 
Gohlen-keTiielled,  golden-cored, 
Sunset.-riiieiK'd  above  on  the  tree. 
The  world  is  wasted  with  fire  and  sword, 
But  the  ajiple  of  gold  hangs  over  the  sea. 
Five  links,  a  golden  chain  are  we, 
Hesjicr,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three. 
Daughters  three. 
Bound  about 

The  gnarled  bole  of  the  charmed  tree. 
The  golden  ajijde,  the  golden  apple,  the 

hallowed  fruit. 
Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 
"Watch  it  warily. 
Singing  airily, 
Staudiuf'  about  the  charmed  root. 


ROSALIND. 


My  Kosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  frolic  falcon,  Avith  bright  eyes, 

"Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height  of 

rapid  flight, 
Stoo]is  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies, 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon,  whith- 
er. 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 
AVhither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind  l 


The  quick  lark's  closest-carolled  strains, 
The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea. 
The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains, 
The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea, 
The  lea])ing  stream,  the  very  wind, 
That  will  not  stay,  npon  fcis  way. 
To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains. 
Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 
You  care  not  for  another's  pains, 
Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 
Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 
Life  shoots  and  glances  thro'  your  veins. 
And  flashes  off  a  thousand  ways 
Through  lijis  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 
Your  hawkeyes  are  keen  and  bright. 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce  me  through  with  pointed  light ; 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  rill, 


And  your  words  are  seeming-hitter, 
Shai'p  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 
From  excess  of  swift  delight. 


Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind  : 
Too  long  you  keep  the  up])er  skies  ; 
Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  .at  will ; 
But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes, 
That  care  not  whom  they  kill, 
And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 
Is  so  sparkling-fresh  to  view, 
Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 
Touched  with  sunrise.     We  must  bind 
And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 
Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 
And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  you  love  : 
"When  we  have  lured  you  from  above, 
And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by  day 

or  night. 
From  north  to  south  ; 
Will  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords. 
And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 
From  off  your  rosy  mouth.  * 


SONG. 

Who  can  say 

Why  To-day 

To-moriow  will  be  yesterday  ? 

Who  can  tell 

•  Author's  NOTH.  —  Perhaps  the  followinff  lines  may 
be  alIowe<i  to  stand  as  a  seiiarate  poeni ;  originally 
they  made  part  of  tlie  text,  wliere  they  were  manifestly 
superfluous. 

Mv  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Bold,  subtle,  careless  Kosalind, 

Is  one  of  those  wlio  know  no  strife 

Of  inward  woe  or  outward  fear  ; 

To  whom  the  slope  and  stream  of  Life, 

The  life  before,  the  life  behind, 

In  the  ear,  from  far  and  near. 

Chinieth  nnisically  clear. 

My  falcon-hearted  Rosalind, 

Full-sailed  before  a  vigorous  wind. 

Is  one  of  those  who  cannot  weep 

For  others*  woes,  but  overleap 

All  tlie  petty  shocks  aiid  fears 

That  trouble  life  in  early  years. 

With  a  flash  of  frolic  scorn 

And  keen  dtlijflit,  th.it  never  falls 

Away  from  freshness,  self-upborne 

M'ith  such  gladness  as.  whenever 

The  fresh-flushing  springtime  calls 

To  the  flooding  w.aters  cool. 

Young  fishes,  on  ,in  April  morn. 

Up  and  down  a  rajjid  river, 

Leai)  the  little  waterfalls 

That  sing  into  the  pebbled  pool. 

My  happy  falcon,  Rosalind, 

Hath  danng  fancies  of  her  own. 

Fresh  as  the  dawn  before  the  day. 

Fresh  as  the  early  sea-smell  blown 

Through  vineyards  from  an  inland  bay. 

My  Ros,alind,  my  Rosalind, 

Because  no  shadow  on  ynu  falls. 

Think  you  hearts  are  tennisballs 

To  play  with,  wanton  Rosalind  T 


SONNET. 


419 


Why  to  smell 

The  violet  recalls  the  dewy  prime 

Of  youth  and  buried  time  ? 

The  cause  is  nowhere  found  in  rhyme. 


KATE. 

I  KNOW  her  by  her  angry  air, 
Her  bright  black  eyes,  her  bright  black 
hair, 
Her  rapid  laughters  wild  and  shrill, 
As  laughters  of  the  woodpecker 
From  the  bosom  of  a  hill. 
'T  is  Kate  —  she  sayeth  what  she  will : 
For  Kate  hath  an  unbridled  tongue. 
Clear  as  the  twanging  of  a  harp. 
Her  heart  is  like  a  throbbing  star. 
Kate  hath  a  spirit  ever  strung 

Like  a  new  bow,  and  bright  and  sharp, 

As  edges  of  the  scymitar. 
Whence  shall  she  take  a  fitting  mate  ? 
For  Kate  no  common  love  will  feel ; 
My  woman-soldier,  gallant  Kate, 
As  pure  and  true  as  blades  of  steel. 

Kate  saith  "  the  world  is  void  of  might." 
Kate  saith  "  the  men  are  gilded  flies." 
Kate  snaps  her  fingers  at  my  vows  ; 
Kate  will  not  hear  of  lovers'  sighs. 
I  would  I  were  an  armed  knight, 
Far  famed  for  well-won  enterprise, 

And  wearing  on  my  swarthy  brows 
The  garland  of  new-wreathed  emprise  : 
For  in  a  moment  I  would  pierce 
The  blackest  files  of  clanging  fight, 
And  strongly  strike  to  left  and  right. 
In  dreaming  of  my  lady's  eyes. 

Oh  !  Kate  loves  well  the  bold  and 
fierce  ; 
But  none  are  bold  enough  for  Kate, 
She  cannot  find  a  fitting  mate. 


SONNET 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  OfT- 
BUEAK  OF  THE  POLISH  INSURREC- 
TION. 

Blow  ye  the  tnimpet,  gather  from  afar 
The  hosts  to  battle  :  be  not  bought  and 

sold. 
Arise,  brave  Poles,  theboldest  of  thel)old  ; 
Break  through  your  iron  shackles —  fling 

them  far. 
0  for  those  days  of  Piast,  ere  the  Czar 


Grew  to  his  strength  among  his  deserts 

cold  ; 
When  even   to  Moscow's  cupolas  were 

rolled 
The  growing  murmurs  of  the  Polish  war ! 
Now  must  your  noble  anger  blaze   out 

more 
Than  when  from  Sobieski,  clan  by  clan, 
The  Moslem  myriads  fell,  and  Hed  before — 
Than  when  Zamoysky  smote  the  Tartar 

Khan  ; 
Than  earlier,  when  on  the  Baltic  shore 
Boleslas  drove  the  Pomeranian. 


SONNET 

ON  THE  RESULT   OF  THE  LATE  BUSSIAN 
INVASION   OF   POLAND, 

How  long,  0  God,  .shall  men  be  ridden 

down. 
And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and  least 
Of  men  ?     The  heart  of  Poland  hath  not 

ceased 
To  quiver,  though  her  sacred  blood  doth 

drown 
The  fields ;  and  out  of  every  mouldering 

town 
Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  in- 
creased, 
Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the  East 
Transgress  his   ample   bound   to  some 

new  crown  :  — 
Cries  to  Thee,  "  Lord,  how   long  shall 

the.se  things  lie  ? 
How  longshallthe  icy-hearted  Muscovite 
Oppress  the  region  ? "     Us,  0  Just  and 

Good, 
Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn 

in  three  ; 
Us,  who  stand  now,  when  we  should  aid 

the  right  — 
A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of  blood  ! 


SONNET. 

As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse  and 

l)rood, 
Ami  ebb  into  a  former  life,  or  seem 
To  lapse  far  back  in  a  coiifus(^d  dream 
To  .states  of  mystical  .similitude  ; 
If  one  but  six;aks  or  hems  or  stirs  his 

chair. 
Ever  the  wonder  waxeth  more  and  more, 
Sothatwssay,  "All  this  hath  been  before, 


420 


A   FRAGMENT. 


All  this  hath  been,  I  know  not  when  or 

where. " 
So,  friend,  when  first  I  looked  upon  your 

face. 
Our  thought  gave  answer,  each  to  each, 

so  true, 
Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each  — 
Altho'  I  knew  not  in  what  time  or  ])lace, 
Methought  that  1  had  ofteumetwith  you, 
And  eacli  had  lived  in  the  other's  mind 

and  speech. 


0  DARLING  ROOM. 


O  DARLING  room,  my  heart's  delight 
Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sight, 
AVith  thy  two  couches  soft  and  white, 
Tliere  is  no  room  so  excjuisite, 
No  little  room  so  warm  and  bright. 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


For  I  the  Nonnenwerth  have  seen, 
And  Oberwiuter's  vineyards  green, 


Musical  Lurlei ;  and  between 
The  hills  to  Bingen  liave  I  been, 
Bingen  in  Darmstadt,  wheie  tlic  Rhene 
Curves  toward  Mentz,  a  woody  scene. 

III. 

Yet  never  did  there  meet  my  sight, 

In  any  town  to  left  or  right, 

A  little  room  so  exquisite, 

With  two  such  couches  soft  and  wliite  ; 

Not  any  room  so  warm  and  bright. 

Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


TO  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

You  did  late  review  my  lays, 

Crusty  Christopher  ; 
You  did  mingle  blame  and  praise, 

Rusty  Christopher. 
When  I  learnt  from  whom  it  came, 
I  forgave  you  all  the  blame. 

Musty  Christopher ; 
I  could  not  forgive  the  praise, 

Fusty  Christopher. 


FUGITIVE  POEMS. 


NO  MORE.* 

0  SAB   No    Morel    0    sweet    No 

More  I 
0  strange  No  More  I 
By  a  mossed  brookbank  on  a  stone 

1  smelt  a  wildweed  flower  alone  ; 
There  was  a  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  both  my  eyes  gushed  out  with 

tears. 
Surely  all  pleasant  things  had  gone  before. 
Low-buried  fathom  deep  beneath  with 

thee.  No  More  ! 


ANACREONTICS.* 

With  roses  musky-breathed. 
And  drooping  daffodilly. 
And  silver-leaved  lily. 
And  ivy  darkly-wreathed, 
I  wove  a  crown  before  her, 
For  her  I  love  so  dearly, 

*  From  the  Gem,  a  literary  annucil,  for  1831. 


A  garland  for  Lenora. 

With  a  silken  cord  I  bound  it. 

Lenora,  laughing  clearly 

A  light  and  thrilling  laughter, 

About  lier  forehead  wound  it. 

And  loved  me  ever  after. 


A  FRAGMENT.* 

Where  is  the  Giant  of  the  Sun,  which 

stood  4 

In  the  midnoon  the  glory  of  old  Rhodes, 
A  perfect  Idol  with  profulgent  brows 
Far-sheening  down  the   purple   seas  to 

those 
Who  sailed  from  Mizraim   underneath 

the  star 
Named  of  the  Dragon  —  and  between 

whose  limbs 
Of  brassy  vastness  broad-blown  Argosies 
Drave  into  haven  ?  Yet  endure  unscathed 
Of  changeful  cycles  the  great  Pyramids 

•  From  the  Gem,  a  literary  annual,  for  1861. 


THE   NEW   TIMON   AND   THE   POETS. 


421 


Broad-based  amid  the  fleeting  sands,  and 

slo})ed 
Into  the  slumberous  summer  noon  ;  but 

where. 
Mysterious  Egypt,  are  thine  obelisks 
Graven  with  gorgeous  emblems  undis- 

cemed  ? 
Thy  placid  Sphinxes  brooding  o'er  the 

Nile? 
Thy  shadowing  Idols  in  the  solitudes, 
Awful  Memnonian  countenances  calm 
Looking  athwart  the  burning  flats,  far  off 
Seen  by  the  high-necked  camel  on  the  verge 
Journeying  southward  ?     Where  are  thy 

monuments 
Piled  by  the  strong  and  sunborn  Anakim 
Overtheircrownedbrethren  On  and  Oph  ? 
Thy  Memnon  when  his  peaceful  lips  are 

kist 
With  earliest  rays,  that  from  his  mother's 

eyes 
Flow  over  the  Arabian  bay,  no  more 
Breathes  low  into  the  charmed  eara  of 

morn 
Clear  melody  flattering  the  crisped  Nile 
By  columned  Thebes.    OldMemphis  hath 

gone  down  : 
The  Pharaohs  are  no  more  :  somewhere 

in  death 
They  sleep  with  staring  eyes  and  gilded 

lips. 
Wrapped  round  with  spiced  cerements 

in  old  grots 
Rock-hewn  and  sealed  for  ever. 


SONNET.  • 

Me   my   own   fate   to    lasting    sorrow 
doometh  : 
Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  transi- 
tory : 
Thy  spirit,  circled  with  a  living  glory, 
In  summer  still  a  summer  joy  resumeth. 
Alone  my  hopeless  melancholy gloonK-th, 
Like  a  lone  cypress,  through  the  twi- 
light hoary, 
From  an   old  garded  where  no   flower 
bloometh, 
One  c)rpress  on  an  island  promontory. 
But  yet  my  lonely  s])irit  follows  thine. 
As  round  the  rolling  earth  night  follows 
day  : 
But  yet  thy  lights  on  my  horizon  shine 
Into  my  night,  when  thou  art  far  awa}'. 


I  am  so  dark,  alas  !  and  thou  so  bright. 
When  we  two  meet  there  's  never  perfect 
Ught. 


SONNET.* 

Check  every  outflash,  ever}'  ruder  sally 
Of  thought   and  speech  ;   speak   low 
and  give  up  wholly 
Thy  spirit  to  mild- minded  melancholy  ; 
This  is  the  place.    Through  yonder  pop- 
lar valley 
Below  the   blue-green  river  windeth 
slowly  ; 
But  in  the  middle  of  the  sombre  valley 
The  crisped  watere  whisper  musically. 
And  all  the  haunted  place  is  dark  and 
holy. 
The  nightingale,  with  long  and  low  pre- 
amble. 
Warbled  from  yonder  knoll  of  solemn 

larches, 
And  in  and  out  the  woodbine's  flowery 
arches 
The  summer  midges  wove  their  wanton 
gambol, 
And  all  the  white-stemmed  pinewood 

slept  above  — 
When  in  this  valley  first  I  told  my  love. 


THE  SKIPPING-ROPKt 

Sure  never  yet  was  Antelope 

Could  skip  so  lightly  by. 
Stand  off,  or  else  my  skijiping-rope 

Will  hit  yon  in  the  eye. 
How  lightly  whirls  the  skipping-rope  ! 

How  fairy-like  you  fly  ! 
Go,  get  you  gone,  you  muse  and  mope  — 

I  hate  that  silly  sigh. 
Nay,  dearest,  teach  me  how  to  hope, 

Or  tell  me  how  to  die. 
There,  take  it,  take  my  skipping-rope, 

And  hang  yourself  thereby. 


•  Friendship's  Offerim;,  18J3. 


THE  NEW  TIMON  AND  THE 
POETS,  t 

We  know  him,  out  of  Shakespeare's  art, 
And  those  finecurws  whiih  lie  spoke  ; 

The  old  Timon,  with  his  nohle  heart. 
That,  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 

I*  Friendship's  Oflferine.  i8t). 
♦  Oniilteil  from  the  e<llli'>n  rif  iRu. 
}  I^iUitlied  ill  t'uiich,  Feb.  1846,  ui^ed  "  Alcibiadcs.* 


422 


BRITONS,  GUARD  YOUR  OWN. 


So  died  the  Old  :  here  comes  the  New. 

Regard  him  :  a  familiar  lace  : 
I  thought  we  knew  him  :  What,  it 's  you, 

The   padded    man  —  that    wears    the 
stays  — 

Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote  ! 

A  Lion,  you,  that  made  a  noise. 
And  shook  a  mane  en  papillotes. 

And  once  you  tried  the  Muses  too  ; 

You  failed,  Sir :  therefore  now  you  turn, 
To  fall  on  those  who  are  to  you 

As  Captain  is  to  Subaltern. 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes. 

And  careless  what  this  hour  may  bring. 

Can  pardon  little  would-be  Popes 
And  BRUMMELS,whenthey  try  to  sting. 

An  Artist,  Sir,  should  rest  in  Art, 
And  waive  a  little  of  his  claim  ; 

To  have  the  deep  Poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

But  you,  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please  ; 

You  never  look  but  half  content ; 
Nor  like  a  gentleman  at  ease. 

With  moral  breadth  of  temperament. 

And  what  with  spites  and  what  with  fears. 

You  cannot  let  a  body  be  : 
It 's  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 

'•  They  call  this  man  as  good  as  vie." 

What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  mei'its  of  a  spotless  shirt  — 

A  dapper  boot  —  a  little  hand  — 
If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt  ? 

Yoti  talk  of  tinsel !  why,  we  see 
The  old  mark  of  rouge  upon  your  cheeks. 

You  prate  of  Nature  !  you  are  he 
That  spilt  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A  TiMON  you  !  Nay,  nay,  for  shame  : 
It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest  — 

The  fierce  old  man  —  to  take  his  name. 
You  bandbox.     Otf,  and  let  him  rest. 


STANZAS.* 

What  time  I  wasted  youthful  hours. 
One  of  the  shining  winged  powers, 
Show'd  me  vast  cliifs  with  crown  of  towers. 

•  The  Keepsake.    1851. 


As  towards  the  gracious  light  I  bow'd, 
They  seem'd  high  palaces  and  proud, 
Hid  now  and  then  with  sliding  cloud. 

He  said,  "  The  labor  is  not  small ; 
Yet  winds  the  pathway  free  to  all  :  — 
Take  care  thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall ! " 


SONNET 

TO   WILLIAM    CHARLES   MACEEADY.* 

Farewell,  Macready,  since  to-night  we 
I)art. 
Full-handed  thunders  often  have  con- 

fest 
Thy  power,  well-used  to  move  the  pub- 
lic breast. 
We  thank  thee  with  one  voice,  and  from 

the  heart. 
Farewell,    ilacready ;   since   this   night 
we  part. 
Go,   take  thine  honors  home  :   rank 

with  the  best, 
Ganick,  and  statelier  Kemble,  and  the 
rest 
Who  made  a  nation  purer  thro'  their  art. 
Thine  is  it,  that  our  Drama  did  not  die, 
Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  panto- 
mime. 
And  those  gilt  gauds   men-children 
swarm  to  see. 
Farewell,  ilacready ;  moral,  giave,  sub- 
lime. 
0  ur  Shakespeare's  bland  and  universal  eye 
Dwells  i^leased,  thro'  twice  a  hundred 
years,  on  thee. 

BRITONS,    GUARD  Y^OUR   OWN.t 

Rise,  Britons,  rise,  if  manhood  be  not 

dead ; 
The  world's  last  temjiest  darkens  over- 
head ; 
The  Pope  has  bless'd  him  ; 
The  Cliurch  caress'd  him  ; 
He  triumphs ;  maybe  we  shall  stand  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

His  ruthless  host  is  bought  with  plunder'  d 

gold. 
By  lying  priests  the  peasants'  votes  con- 

troU'd. 

•  Read  by  Mr.  John  Forster  at  a  dinner  given  to  Mr. 
Macready,  March  i,  1851,  on  his  retirement  from  the 


THE  THIRD   OF  FEBRUARY,  1852. 


423 


All  freedom  vaiush'd, 
The  tnie  men  banish' J, 
He  triumphs ;  maybe  we  shall  stand  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Peace-lovers  we  —  sweet   Peace  we  all 

desire — 
Peace-lovers  we — but  who  can  trust  a 
liar?  — 
Peace-lovers,  haters 
Of  shameless  traitors. 
We  hate  not  France,  but  this  man's  heart 
of  stone, 
Britons,  guard  your  ovnx. 

We  hate  not  France,  but  France  has  lost 

her  voice. 
This  man  is  France,  the  man  they  call 
her  choice. 
By  tricks  and  spying, 
By  craft  and  lying, 
And  murder  was  her  freedom  overthrown. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

"Vive  I'Empereur"  may  follow  by  and 

by; 
"God  save  the  Queen"  is  here  a  truer  crj'. 
God  save  the  Nation, 
The  toleration. 
And  the  free  s[>eech  that  makes  a  Briton 
known. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Rome's  dearest  daughter  now  is  captive 

France, 
The  Jesuit  laughs,  and  reckoning  on  his 
chance. 
Would  unrelenting, 
Kill  all  dissenting, 
Till  we  were  left  to  fight  for  truth  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Call  home  your  ships  across   Biscayan 

tides. 
To  blow  the  battle  from  their  oaken  sides. 
Why  waste  they  yonder 
Their  idle  thunder? 
Why  stay  they  there  to  guard  a  foreign 
throne  ? 
Seamen,  guard  your  own. 

We  were  the  bt'st  of  marksmen  long  ago. 
We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength, 
the  bow. 
Now  ])ractice,  yeomen. 
Like  those  bowmen, 
Till  your  balls  fly  as  their  shafts  have 
flown. 
Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 


His  soldier-ridden  Highness  might  in- 
cline 
To  takeSardinia,  Belgium,  or  the  Rhine : 

Shall  we  stand  idle. 

Nor  seek  to  bridle 
His  rude  aggi-essions,  till  we  stand  alone  ? 

Make  their  cause  your  own. 

Should  he  land  here,  and  for  one  hour 

prevail, 
There  must  no  man  go  back  to  bear  the 
tale: 
No  man  to  bear  it  — 
Swear  it  !  we  swear  it ! 
Although  we  light   the   banded   world 
alone. 
We  swear  to  guard  our  own. 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARy,1852.* 

My  lords,  we  heard  you  speak  ;  you  told 
us  all 
That  England's  honest  censure  went 
too  far ; 
That  our  free  press  should  cease  to  brawl, 
Not   sting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into 
war. 
It  was  an  ancient  privilege,  my  lords, 
To  fling  whate'er  we  lelt,  not  fearing,  in- 
to words. 

We  love  not  this  French  God,  this  child 

of  Hell, 
Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse  of 

the  wise  ; 
But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so  well. 
We  dare  not,  e'en  by  silence,  sanction 

lies. 
Itmight  safelieotir  censuresto  withdraw  ; 
And  yet,  my  lords,  not  well ;  there  is  a 

higher  law. 

As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak  free. 
Though  all  the  storm  of  EurofK'  on  us 

break  ; 
No  little  German  state  are  we, 

But  the  on(!  voice  in  Europe  ;  we  intist 

speak  ; 
That  if    to-night    our  greatness    were 

stnii;k  (lead, 
There  iiii;;ht  remain  some  record  of  the 

things  we  said. 

If  you  1)6  fearful,  then  must  we  Iw  bold. 
Our  Britain  cannot  salve  a  tyrant  o'er. 

*  The  Examiner,  185a,  and  kigned  "  Merlin-* 


424 


HANDS   ALL   ROUND. 


Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roll'd 

On  her  and  us  and  ours  for  evermore. 

"What  !  have  we  fought  for  freedom  from 
our  prime, 

At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a  pub- 
lic Clime  ? 

Shall  we  fear  him  ?  our  own  we  never 

feared. 
From  our  lirst  Charles   by  force   we 

wrung  our  claims, 
Prick'd  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear'd, 
And   flung  the  burden   of  the  second 

James. 
I  say  we  never  fear'd  !  and  as  for  these, 
We  broke  them  on  the  laud,  we  drove 

them  on  the  seas. 

And  you,  my  lords,  you  make  the  people 
muse. 
In  doubtifyoube  of  our  Barons' breed — 
Were   those  your  sires  who  fought   at 
Lewes  ? 
Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Eunnymede  ? 
0  fall'n  nobility,  that,  overawed. 
Would  lisp  in  honey'd  whispers  of  this 
monstrous  fraud. 

We  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here  were 

sin. 
Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble 

hosts  — 
If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have  left  the  last  free  race  with  naked 

coasts  ! 
They  knew  the  precious  things  they  had 

to  guai-d  : 
For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant  one 

hard  word. 

Though  niggard  throats  of  Manchester 

may  bawl. 
What  England  was,  shall  her  trae  sons 

forget  ? 
We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 

But  some  love  England,  and  her  honor 

yet. 
And  these  in  our  Thermopylre  shall  stand, 
And  hold  against  the  world  the  honor  of 

the  laud. 


HANDS   ALL   ROUND.* 

First  drink  a  health,  this  solemn  night, 
A  health  to  England,  every  guest ; 

•  The  Examiner,  185a,  and  signed  "  Merlin." 


That  man  's  the  best  cosmopolite 

Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 
May  freedoiu's  oak  for  ever  live 

With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day  ; 
That  man 's  the  best  Conservative 
Who  lops  the  mouldered  branch  away. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  gi-eat  cause  of  Freedom  drink,  my 
friends. 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round. 

A  health  to  Europe's  honest  men  ! 
Heaven  guard  them  from  her  tyrants' 
jails  ! 
From  wronged  Poerio's  noisome  den. 

From  iron  limbs  and  tortured  nails  ! 
We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern  kings. 

The  Russian  whipsand  Austrian  rods — 
We  likewise  have  our  evil  things  ; 
Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers,  Gods. 

Yet  hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  Eurojie's  better  health  we  drink,  my 
friends. 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round  ! 

What  health  to  France,  if  France  be  she. 
Whom  martial  progress  only  charms  ? 
Yet  tell  her  —  better  to  be  free 

Than  van((uish  all  the  world  in  arms. 
Her  frantic  city's  flashing  heats 

But  fire,  to  blast,  the  hopes  of  men. 
Why  change  the  titles  of  your  stieets  ? 
You  fools,  you  '11  want  them  all  again. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  France,  the  wiser  France,  we  drink, 
my  friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England, round 
and  round. 

Gigantic  daughter  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood. 
We  know  thee  and  we  love  thee  best. 
For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood  ? 
Should  M-ar's  mad  blast  again  be  blown. 

Permit  not  thou  the  tyraut  jjowers 
To  fight  thy  mother  here  alone. 

But  let  thy  broadsides  roar  with  ours. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  our  dear  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my 
friends. 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round. 


ON   A   SPITEFUL   LETTER. 


425 


0  rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons. 

When  war  against  our  fieedoni  springs ! 
O  speak  to  Europe  through  your  guns  ! 

Tliey  can  be  understood  by  kings. 
You  must  not  mix  our  Queen  with  those 
That  wish  to  keep  their  peojile  fools  ; 
Our  freedom's  foumeu  are  her  foes, 
She  comjuehends  the  race  she  rules. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  our  dear  kinsman  in  the  West,  my 
friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round. 


THE   WAR.* 

There  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar. 

Storm  in  the  South  that  darkens  the 

Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  war, 
Well,  if  it  do  not  roll  our  way. 
Form  !  form  !  lliflemen  form  ! 
Keady,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  ! 
EiHemen,  rillemen,  rillemen  form  ! 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns  ! 

Be  not  guil'd  by  a  despot's  plea! 
Are  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  thorns  ? 
How  should  a  despot  set  men  free  ? 
Form  !  form  !  lUflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  ! 
Rirtemen,  riflemen,  rillemen  form  ! 

Let  your  Reforms  for  a  moment  go. 

Look  to  your  butts  and  take  good  aims. 
Better  a  rotten  borough  or  so, 

Than  a  rotten  fleet  or  a  city  in  flames  ! 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  l)e  ready  to  meet  tiie  storm  ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 

Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die  ! 

Fonn    in    Freedom's   name   and    the 
Queen's  ! 
Tnie,  that  we  have  a  faithful  ally, 
But   only  the  Devil   knows  what  he 
means. 
Vorui  !  form  !  Riflemen  fonn  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  me(;t  the  storm  ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  I 
T. 

•  London  Times,  May  9,  1859. 


ON   A  SPITEFUL   LETTER.* 

Here,  it  is  here — the  close  of  the  year, 
Ami  with  it  a  spiteful  letter. 

My  fame  in  song  has  done  him  much 
wrong. 
For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0  foolish  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard. 
If  men  neglect  your  pages  ? 

1  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine  : 
1  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

This  fallen  leaf,  is  n't  fame  as  brief? 

My  rhymes  may  have  been  the  stronger. 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  3'our  lot ; 

1  last  but  a  moment  longer. 

0  faded  leaf,  is  n't  fame  as  brief  ? 

What  room  is  here  for  a  hater  ? 
Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener  leaf, 

For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I  —  is  n't  that  your  cry  ? 

And  1  shall  live  to  sec  it. 
Well,  if  it  be  so,  so  it  is,  you  know  ; 

And  if  it  be  so  —  so  be  it ! 

0  summer  leaf,  is  n't  life  as  brief  ? 

But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 
And  my  heart,  my  heart  is  an  evergreen : 

1  hate  the  spites  and  the  follies. 


1865-1866.t 

I  STOOD  on  a  tower  in  the  wet. 

And  New  Year  and  Old  Year  met, 

And  winds  were  roaring  and  blowing  ; 

And  I  said,  "0  years  that  meet  in 
tears. 

Have  ye  aught  that  is  worth  the  know- 
ing { 

Science  enough  and  exploring, 

Wanderers  coming  and  going. 

Matter  enough  for  deploring, 

Hut  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing  i" 

Seas  at  my  feet  were  flowing. 

Waves  on  the  shingle  pouring, 

Old  Year  roaring  and  blowing, 

And  New  Year  blowing  and  roaring. 

•  Once  .1  Week.  Jami.iry  4.  i86«. 
i  Good  Wurd>,  Mar^li,  18O8. 


426 


THE   WINDOW. 


THE    WINDOW 

OR,    THE    SONGS    OF    THE    WRENS. 


WORDS  WRITTEN   FOR   MUSIC. 

THE    MUSIC    BY    ARTHUR    SULLIVAN. 

Four  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a  little  song-cycle,  German 
fashion,  for  him  to  exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting 
such  old  songs  as  "  Oqiheus  with  his  lute,"  and  I  drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the 
old  style,  a  puppet  whose  almost  only  merit  is,  perhaps,  that  it  can  daiice  to  Mr. 
Sullivan's  instrument.  I  am  sorry  that  my  four-year-old  puppet  should  have  to 
dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  days  ;  but  the  music  is  now  completed, 
and  I  am  bound  by  my  promise. 


December,  1870. 


A.  Tennyson. 


ON  THE  HILL. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly  ! 
Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down 
on  the  plain. 
A  jewel,  a  jewel  dear  to  a  lover's  eye  ! 
0  is  it  the  brook,  or  a  pool,  or  her  win- 
dow-pane. 
When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above. 
And  winds  and  lights  and  shadows  that 
cannot  be  still. 
All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home 
of  my  love, 
You  are  all  running  on,  and  I  stand  on 
the  slope  of  the  hill, 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning ! 

Follow,  follow  the  chase  ! 
And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as 
quick,  ever  on,  on,  on. 
0  lights,  are  you  flying  over  her  sweet 
little  face  ? 
And   my  heart  is  there  before  you  are 
come  and  gone, 
When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing ! 

Follow  them  down  the  slope  ! 
And  I  follow  them  down  to  the  window- 
pane  of  my  dear, 


And  it  brightens  and   darkens  and 
brightens  like  my  hope. 
And  it  darkens  and  brightens  and  dark- 
ens like  my  fear. 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

II. 
AT    THE    WINDOW. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine. 
Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine  ! 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis. 
Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss. 
Kiss,  kiss  ;  and  make  her  a  bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a  flower, 
Drop  me  a  flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Cannot  a  flower,  a  flower,  be  mine  ? 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Drop  me  a  flower,  a  flower,  to  kiss. 
Kiss,  kiss  —  And  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a  flower,  a  flower, 
Dropt,  a  flower. 


III. 
GONE! 

Gone  ! 

Gone  till  the  end  of  the  year, 
Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her  and 
left  me  in  shadow  here  ! 


THE  WINDOW. 


427 


Gone  —  flitted  away, 
Taken  the  stars  from  the  night  and,  the 

sun  from  the  day  ! 
Gone,  and  a  cloud  in  my  heart,  and  a 

storm  in  the  air  ! 
Flown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted  I 

know  not  where  ! 
Down  in  the  south  is  a  flash  and  a  groan  : 

she  is  there !  she  is  there  ! 


IV. 

WINTER. 

The  frost  is  here, 

And  fuel  is  dear, 

A-ud  woods  are  sear, 

\nd  fires  bum  clear. 

And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going  year. 

Bite,  frost,  bite  ! 

Yon  roll  up  away  from  the  light 

The  blue  woodlouse,  and  the  plump  dor- 
mouse. 

And  the  bees  are  still'd,  and  the  flies  are 
kill'd. 

And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the 
house. 

But  not  into  mine. 

Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searer. 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer. 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer. 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer. 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the 

earth, 
But  not  into  mine. 


V. 

SPRING. 

BiRD5?'  love  and  birds'  song 

Flying  here  and  there, 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love. 

And  ypu  with  gold  for  hair  ! 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love. 

Passing  with  the  weather, 
Men's  song  and  men's  love. 

To  love  once  and  forever. 

Men's  love  and  birds'  love. 
And  women's  love  and  men's  ! 

And  you  my  wren  with  a  crown  of  gold, 
You  my  Queen  of  the  wrens  I 


You  the  Queen  of  the  wrens  — 

We  '11  be  birds  of  a  feather, 
I  '11  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens, 

And  all  in  a  nest  together. 


VI. 

THE    LETTER. 

Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet. 
Fine  of  the  tine,  and  shy  of  the  shy  ? 

Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet  — 
Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I  write  to  her  ?  shall  I  go  ? 
Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by  T 

Somebody  said  that  she  'd  say  no  ; 
Somebody  knows  that  she  '11  say  ay  ! 

Ay  or  no,  if  ask'd  to  her  face  ? 

Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy  ? 
Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace. 

Fly! 
Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below  — 

Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye  : 
Somebody  said  that  she  'd  say  no  ; 

Somebody  knows  that  she  '11  say  ay  ! 


VII. 

NO    ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and  the 
rain  ! 
Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 
And  never  a  glimpse  of  her  window-pane  I 
And  I  may  die  but  the  grass  will  grow, 
And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I  am  gone. 
And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world 
will  go  on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres, 
No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm. 

Ay  is  life  for  a  hundred  years. 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm. 

And  when  I  am  there  and  dead  and  gone. 

The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will 
go  on. 

The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and  the 
wet ! 
Wet  west  wind,  how  you  blow,  you 
blow  I 
And  never  a  line  from  my  lady  yet  I 

Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  «r  no  ? 
Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I  am  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may 
go  on. 


428 


THE  WINDOW.* 


VTtl. 

NO    ANSWER. 

Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb  : 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come, 

Love  will  come  but  once  a  life. 
W^inds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass  I 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass  : 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
After-loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again  : 
Love  me  now,  you  '11  love  me  then  : 
'    Love  can  love  but  once  a  life. 


IX. 

THE    ANSWER. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet, 
Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet ! 
Must  I  take  you  and  break  you, 
Two  little  hands  that  meet  ? 
I  must  take  you,  and  break  you. 
And  loving  hands  must  part  — 
Take,  take  —  bi-eak,  break  — 
Break  —  you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won  — 
Break,  break,  and  all 's  done. 


IX". 

AY! 

Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day, 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never  were 
merry  before, 
Bo  merry  in  heaven,  0  larks,  and  far 
away. 
And  meriy  forever  and  ever,  and  one 
day  more. 

Why? 
For  it 's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 

Look,  look,  how  he  flits. 

The  fire-crown'd  king  of  the  wrens, 
from  out  of  the  pine  ! 
Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom,  the 
mad  little  tits  ! 
"  Cuck-oo  !    Cuck-oo  !  "    was   ever  a 
May  so  fine  ? 

Why  ? 
For  it 's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 

0  merry  the  linnet  and  dove. 

And  swallow  and  sparrow  and  throstle, 
and  have  your  desire  ! 


0  merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten  the 
wings  of  love, 
And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrens 
with  a  crown  of  fire. 
Why? 
For  it 's  ay  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 

X. 
WHEN? 

Sun  comes,  moon  comes, 

Time  slips  away. 
Sun  sets,  moon  sets. 

Love,  fix  a  day. 

"  A  year  hence,  a  year  hence." 
"  We  shall  both  be  gray." 

"A  month  hence,  a  mouth  hence." 
"  Far,  far  away." 

"A  week  hence,  a  week  hence." 

"Ah,  the  long  delay." 
"Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little. 

You  shall  fix  a  day." 

"To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow, 
And  that 's  an  age  away." 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun. 
And  honor  all  the  day. 

xr. 
MARRIAGE    MORNING. 

Light,  so  low  upon  earth. 

You  send  a  flash  to  the  s  in. 
Here  is  the  golden  close  of  love. 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 
0  the  woods  and  the  meadows. 

Woods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 
Stiles  where  we  stay'd  to  be  kind. 

Meadows  in  which  we  met  ! 
Light,  so  low  in  the  vale, 

You  flash  and  lighten  afar  : 
For  this  is  the  golden  moining  of  love, 

And  you  are  his  morning  star. 
Flash,  i  am  coming,  I  come. 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood  : 
0  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  heart. 

Into  my  heart  and  my  blood  ! 
Heart,  are  you  great  enough 

For  a  love  that  never  tires  ? 
0  heart,  are  you  great  enough  for  love  ? 

I  have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers, 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles, 
Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 

Flash  for  a  million  miles. 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


429 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Dagoket,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in  his 

moods 
Had  made  mock-knight  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round, 
At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellowing 

woods, , 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the  Hall. 
And  toward  him   from   the   Hall,  with 

harp  in  hand, 
And  from  the  crown  thereof  a  carcanet 
Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 
Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday. 
Came  Tristram,  saying,  "  Wliy  skip  ye 

so.  Sir  Fool  ? " 

For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  ridingonce 
Far  down  beneath  a  winding  wall  of  rock 
Heard   a  child  waiL     A  stump  of  oak 

half-dead. 
From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of  carven 

snakes 
Clutch'd  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro' 

mid-air 
Bearing  an  eagle's  nest :  and  thro'  the  tree 
Rush'd  ever  a  rainy  wind,  and  thro'  the 

wind 
Pierced  ever  a  child's  cry  :  and  crag  and 

tree 
Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  perilous 

nest. 
This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  her  neck. 
And  all  unscarr'd  from  beak  or  talon, 

brought 
A  maiden  babe  ;  which  Arthur  pitying 

took. 
Then  gave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear  :  the 

Queen 
But  coldly  acquiescing,  in  her  white  arms 
Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly, 
And  named  it  Nestling  ;  so  forgot  her- 
self 
A  moment,  and  her  cares ;  till  that  young 

life 
Being  smitten  in  mid-heaven  with  mortal 

cold 
Past  from  her  ;  and  in  tinx;  the  carcanet 
Vext  bur  with  plaintive  memories  of  the 

child  : 
So  she,  di'livering  it  to  Arthur,  said, 
"  Take    thou   tlic  jewels   of  this  dead 

innocence, 
And  make  them,  an  thou  wilt,  a  tourney- 
prize." 


To  whom  the  King,   '*  Peace  to  thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead   nestling,   and   this    honor   after 

death. 
Following  thy  will !  but,  0  my  Queen,  I 

muse 
Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  or 

zone. 
Those  diamonds  that  I  rescued  from  the 

tarn. 
And  Lancelot  won,  methought,  for  thee 

to  wear." 

"  Would  rather  ye  had  let  them  fall," 

she  cried, 
"  Plunge  and  be  lost  —  ill-fated  as  they 

were, 
A  bitterness  to  me  !  —  ye  look  amazed, 
Not  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon  as 

given  — 
Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I  was  leaning 

out 
Above  the  river  —  that  unhappy  child 
Past  in  her  barge :  but  rosier  luck  will  go 
With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that  they 

came 
Not  from  the  skeleton  of  a  brother-slayer. 
But  the  sweet  body  of  a  maiden  babe. 
Perchance  —  who  knows  ?  —  the  purest 

of  thy  knights 
May  win  them  for  the  pu  rest  of  my  maids. " 

She  ended,  and  the  cry  of  a  great 

jousts 
With  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the 

ways 
From  Camelot  in  among  the  fadp<l  fields 
To  furthest  towers  ;  and  everywliere  the 

kniglits 
Arm'd  for  a  day  of  glory  before  the  King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud 

morn 
Into  the  hall  stngger'd,  his  visage  ribb'd 
From  ear  to  ear  with  dogwliip-weals,  his 

nose 
Bridge-broken,    one  eye  out,    and   one 

hand  off, 
And  one  with  shatter'd  fingers  dangling 

lame, 
A  churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the  King, 
"  My   churl,  for  whom  Christ  died, 

what  evil  beast 


430 


THE  LAST  TOUKNAMENT. 


Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy  face  ? 

or  fiend  ? 
Man  was  it  who  marr'd  Heaven's  image 

in  thee  thus  ? " 

Then,  sputtering  thro'  the  hedge  of 

splinter'd  teeth, 
Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  with 

bhmt  stump 
Pitch-blacken'd  sawing  the  air,  said  the 

maim'd  churl, 
•*  He  took  them  and  he  drave  them  to 

his  tower  — 
Some    hold  he  was  a  table-knight  of 

thine  — 
A  hundred  goodly  ones — the  Red  Knight 

he  — 
Lord,  I  was  tending  swine,  and  the  Red 

Knight 
Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to  his 

tower  ; 
And  when  I  call'd  upon  thy  name  as  one 
That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by  churl, 
Maim'd  me  and  maul'd,  and  would  out- 
right have  slain. 
Save  that  he   sware  me  to  a  message, 

saying  — 
'  Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars, 

that  1 
Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in  the 

North, 
And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have 

sworn 
My  knights  have  sworn  the  counter  to 

it  —  and  say 
My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his  court, 
But  mine  are  worthier,  seeingthey  profess 
To  be  none  other  than  themselves  —  and 

say 
My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  his  own, 
But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other  ;  and  say  his  hour  is 

come. 
The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long  lance 
Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a  straw.'  " 

Then  Arthur  tum'd  to  Kay  the  senes- 
chal, 

"  Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him 
curiously 

Like  a  king's  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be 
whole. 

The  heathen  —  but  that  ever-climbing 
wave, 

Hurl'd  back  again  so  often  in  empty  foam. 

Hath  lain  for  years  at  rest  —  and  rene- 
gades, 


Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confusion, 

whom 
The  wholesome  realm  is  purged  of  other- 
where, — 
Friends,  thro'  your  manhood  and  your 

fealty,  —  now 
Make  their  last  head  like  Satan  in  the 

Korth. 
My  younger  knights,  new-made,  in  whom 

your  flower 
Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden  deeds, 
Move  with  me   toward  their  quelling, 

which  achieA^ed, 
The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from  shore  to 

shore. 
But  thou,  Sir  Lancelot,  sittingin  my  place 
Enchair'd  to-morrow,  arbitrate  the  field  ; 
For    wherefore   shouldst    thou   care  to 

mingle  with  it. 
Only  to  yield  my  Queen  her  own  again  ? 
Speak,   Lancelot,  thou  art  silent  :  is  it 

well  ? " 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  It  is 
well  : 
Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and  leave 
The  leading  of  his  younger  knights  to  me. 
Else,  for  the  King  has  will'd  it,  it  is  well." 

Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  follow'd 

him, 
And  while  they  stood  without  the  doors, 

the  King 
Turn'd  to  him  saying,   •'  Is  it  then  so 

well? 
Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I  seem  as  he 
Of  whom  was  written,  '  a  sound  is  in  his 

ears'  — 
The  foot  that  loiters,  bidden  go,  —  the 

glance 
That  only  seems  half-loyal  to  command,  — 
A  manner   somewhat  fall'n  from  rever- 
ence— 
Or  have  I    dream'd  the  bearing  of  our 

knights 
Tells  of  a  manhood  ever  less  and  lower  ? 
Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  my  realm, 

uprear'd. 
By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble  vows, 
From  flat  confusion  and  brute  violences, 
Reel  back   into  the  beast,  and   be  no 

more?" 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younger 
knights, 
Down  the  slope  city  rode,  and  sharply 
tum'd 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


431 


North  by  the  gate.     In  her  high  bower 

the  Queen, 
Working  a  tapestry,  lifted  up  her  head, 
Watch'd   her  lord  pass,  and  knew  not 

that  she  sigh'd. 
Then  ran  across  her  memory  the  strange 

rhyme 
Of  bygone  Merlin,   "  Where  is  he  who 

knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes." 

But  when  the  morning  of  a  tournament, 
By  these  in  earnest,  those  in  mockery, 

call'd 
The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Innocence, 
Brake  with  a  wet  wind  blowing,  Lance- 
lot, 
Hound  whose  sick  head  all  night,  like 

birds  of  prey. 
The  wordsof  Arthur  flyingshriek'd,  arose, 
And  down  a  streetway  hung  with  folds 

of  pure 
White  samite,  and  by  fountains  running 

wine. 
Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups 

of  gold, 
Moved  to  the  lists,  and  there,  with  slow 

sad  steps 
Ascending,    hll'd    his    double-dragon'd 

chair. 

Heglanced  and  saw  thestately  galleries, 
Dame,  damsel,  each  thro'  worship  of  their 

Queen 
White-robed  in  honor  of  the  stainless 

child, 
And  some  with  scatter'd  jewels,  like  a 

bank 
Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks  of 

fire. 
He  lookt  but  once,  and  veil'd  his  eyes 

again. 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in  a 

dream 
To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low  roll 
Of  Autumn    thunder,   and    the  jousts 

began  : 
And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellowing 

leaf 
And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower  and 

shorn  plume 
Went  down  it.    Sighing  weariedly,  as  one 
Who  sits  and  ga/es  on  a  faded  fire, 
When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past 

away,  | 


Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o'er  the 

lists. 
He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the  tournament 
Broken,  but  spake  not ;  once,  a  knight 

cast  down 
Before  his  throne  of  arbitration  cursed 
The  dead  babe  and  the  follies  of  the  King ; 
And  once  the  laces  of  a  helmet  crack'd. 
And  show'd  him,  like  avenninin  its  hole, 
Modred,  a  narrow  face  :  anon  he  heard 
The  voice  that  biilow'd  rouud  the  bar- 
riers roar 
An    ocean-sounding   welcome    to    one 

knight, 
But  newly-enter'd,  taller  than  the  rest, 
And  armor'd  all  in  forest  green,  whereon 
There  tript  a  hundred  tiny  silver  deer, 
And  wearing  but  a  holly-spray  for  crest. 
With   ever-scattering    berries,   and    on 

shield 
A  spear,  a  harp,  a  bugle  —  Tristram  — 

late 
From  overseas  in  Brittany  return'd, 
And  marriage  with  a  princess  of  that 

realm, 
Isolt  the   White  —  Sir  Tristram  of  the 

Woods  — 
Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  sometime 

with  pain 
His  own  against. him,  and  now  yeam'd 

to  shake 
The  burthen  olf  hisheart  in  onefuU  shock 
With  Tristram  ev'n  to  death  :  his  strong 

hands  gript 
Anddintedthe  giltdragons  rightand  left. 
Until  he  groan'd  for  wrath  —  so  many 

of  those, 
That  ware  their  ladies'  colors  on  the 

ca.sque. 
Drew  from  before  Sir  Tristram  to  the 

bounds, 
And    there   with  gibes    and  flickering 

mockeries 
Stood,    while    he    mutter'd,    "  Craven 

crests  !     0  shame  ! 
What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they 

8\var«!  to  love  ? 
The  glory  of  our  Hound  Table  is  nomore. " 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot  gave, 

Un'  gems, 
Not  speaking  other  word  than  "  Hast 

thou  won  ? 
Art  thou  the  purest,  brother  f    Sec,  the 

hand 
Wherewith  thou  takest  this  is  red  I  "  to 

whom 


432 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Tristram,  half  plagued   by    Lancelot's 

languorous  mood, 
Made  answer,   "Ay,  but  wherefore  toss 

me  this 
Like  a  dry  bone  cast  to  some  hungry 

hound  ? 
Let  be  thy  fair  Queen's  fantasy.  Strength 

of  heart 
And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use  and 

skill. 
Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our  King. 
My  hand  —  belike  the  lance  hath  dript 

upon  it  — 
No  blood  of  mine,  I  trow  ;  but  0  chief 

knight. 
Right  ann  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield. 
Great  brother,  thou  nor  1  have  made  the 

world  ; 
Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I  in  mine." 

And  Tristram  round  the  gallery  made 

his  horse 
Caracole ;  then  bow'd  his  homage,  bluntly 

saying, 
"Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  worships 

each 
Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love,  behold 
This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not 

here." 
Then  most  of  these  were  mute,  some 

anger' d,  one 
Murmuring  "All  courtesy  is  dead,"  and 

one, 
"  The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 

more." 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt 

and  mantle  clung, 
And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan  day 
Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and  weari- 
ness : 
But  under  her  black  brows  a  swarthy 

dame 
Laught  shrilly,  crpng ' '  Praise  the  patient 

saints, 
Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath 

past, 
Tho'    somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt. 

So  be  it. 
The  snowdrop  only,  flow'ring  thro'  the 

year. 
Would    make   the  world  as   blank   as 

wintertide. 
Come  —  let  us  comfort  their  sad  eyes, 

our  Queen's 
And  Lancelot's,  at  this  night's  solemnity 
With  all  the  kindlier  colors  of  the  field." 


So  dame  and  damsel  glitter'd  at  the 

feast 
Variously  gay  :  for  he  that  tells  the  tale 
Liken'd  them,  saying  "  as  when  an  hour 

of  cold 
Falls  on  the  mountain  in  midsummer 

snows, 
And  all  the  purple  slopes  of  mountain 

flowers 
Pass  under  white,  till   the  warm  hour 

returns 
With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 

again  "  ; 
So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple  white, 
And  glowing  in  all  colors,  the  live  gi-ass, 
Rose-campion,  bluebell,  kingcup,  poppy, 

glanced 
About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so  loud 
Beyond  all  use,  that,  half-amazed,  the 

Queen, 
And  wroth  at  Tristram  and  the  lawless 

jousts. 
Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to  her 

bower 
Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord- 

And  little  Dagonet  on  the  morrow 

morn, 
High  overall  the  yellowing  Autumn -tide. 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 

haU. 
Then  Tristram  saying,   "Why  skip  ye 

so,  Sir  Fool  ?  " 
Wheel'd  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet 

replied, 
"  Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company ; 
Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much  wit 
Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I 

skip 
To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of  all." 
"Ay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "but   'tis 

eating  dry 
To  dance  without  a  catch,  a  roundelay 
To  dance   to."     Then  he   twangled  on 

his  harp, 
And  while  he  twangled  little   Dagonet 

stood, 
Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 
Stay'd  in   the   wandering  warble   of  a 

brook  ; 
But  when  the  twangling  ended,  skipt 

again  ; 
Then  being  ask'd,  "  Why  skipt  ye  not, 

Sir  Fool  ? " 
Made  answer,  "  I  had  liefer  twenty  years 
Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 
Than  any  broken  music  ye  can  make." 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


433 


Then  Tristram,  waiting  for  the  quip  to 

come, 
"  Good  now,  what  music  have  I  broken, 

fool  ? " 
And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  "  Arthur, 

the  king's  ; 
For  when  thou   playest   that  air  with 

Queen  Isolt, 
Th  ou  m  akest  broken  music  with  thy  bride. 
Her  daintier  namesake  down  in  Brit- 
tany — 
Andsothoubreakest  Arthur's  music  too." 
' '  Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy  brains. 
Sir  Fool,"  said  Tristram,  "  1  would  break 

thy  head. 
Fool,  I  came  late,  the  heathen  wars  were 

o'er. 
The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by  the 

shell  — 
I  am  but  a  fool  to  reason  with  a  fool. 
Come,  thou  art  crabb'd  and  sour  :  but 

lean  me  down, 
Sir  Dagonet,  one  of  thy  long  asses'  ears, 
And  hearken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 

"'Free  love — free   field  —  we  love 

but  while  we  may  : 
The  woods  are  hush'd,  their  music  is  no 

more  : 
The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past  away  : 
New  leaf,  new  life  —  the  days  of  iwat 

are  o'er  : 
New  life  new  love  to  suit  the  newer  day  : 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went 

before  : 
Free  love  —  free   field  —  we    love    but 

while  we  may.' 

"  Ye  might  have  moved  slow-measure 

to  my  tune. 
Not  stood  stockstill.     I  made  it  in  the 

woods, 
And  found  it  ring  as  true  as  tested  gold." 

But  Dagonet  with  one  foot  poised  in 
his  hand, 

"  Friend,  diil  ye  mark  that  fountain  yes- 
terday 

Made  to  run  wine  ?  —  but  this  had  run 
itself 

All  out  like  a  long  life  to  a  sour  end  — 

And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  golden 
cups 

To  hand  the  wine  to  whomsoever  came  — 

The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as  In- 
nocence, 

In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe. 


Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence  the 

Queen 
Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  the  King 
Gave  for  a   prize  —  and   one   of  those 

white  slips 
Handed  her  cupand piped,  the  prettyone, 
'  Drink,  drink,  Sir  Fool,'  and  thereupon 

1  drank. 
Spat  —  pish  —  the   cup  was  gold,    the 

draught  was  mud." 

And  Tristram,  "  Was  it  muddier  than 

thy  gibes  ? 
Is  all  the   laughter  gone  dead  out  of 

thee  ?  — 
Not  marking  how  the  knighthood  mock 

thee,  fool  — 
'  Fear  God  :  honor  the  king  —  his  one 

true  knight  — 
Sole  follower  of  the  vows '  —  for  here  be 

they 
Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I  came, 
Smuttier  than  blasted  grain  :  but  when 

the  King 
Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so  shot  up 
It  frighted  all  free  fool  from  out  thy 

heart; 
Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less 

than  swine, 
A  naked  aught  —  yet  swine  I  hold  thee 

still. 
For  I  have  flung  thee  pearls,  and  find 

thee  swine." 

And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his 

feet, 
"  Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies  round 

my  neck 
In  lieu  of  hers,  I  '11  hold  thou  hast  some 

touch 
Of  music,  since  I  care  not  for  thy  pearls. 
Swine  ?     1  have  wallowM,  1  have  wash'd 

—  the  world 
Is  flesh  and  shadow  —  1  have  had  my  daj'. 
The  dirty  nurse,  ExiHjrience,  in  lu-r  kind 
Hath  foiil'd  me  —  an  I  wallow'd,  then 

1  wash'd  — 
Ihavchad  mydayandmy  philoso]>hie8  — 
And  thank  the  Lord  1  am  King  Arthur'* 

fool. 
Swine,  say  ye  ?  swine,  goats,  asses,  rams, 

and  geese 
Troop'd  round  a  Paynim   harpr  once, 

who  thnimni'd 
On  such  a  wire  as  musi<nlly  a-s  thou 
Some  such  tine  song—  but  never  a  king's 

fool." 


434 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


And  Tristram,    "  Then  were  swine, 

goats,  asses,  geese 
The  wisei'  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim  bard 
Had  such  a  mastery  of  his  mystery 
Thathe  could  harp  liis  wife  upoutof  Hell." 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball  of 
his  foot, 

"And  whitherharp'st  thou  thine  ?  down ! 
and  thyself 

Down  !  and  two  more  :  a  helpful  harper 
thou. 

That  harpest  downward  !  Dost  thou 
know  the  star 

We  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in  heav- 
en?" 

And  Tristram,    "  Ay,    Sir  Fool,   for 

when  our  King 
Was  victor   welluigh   day  by  day,  the 

knights. 
Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his  name 
High  on  all  hills,  and  in  the  signs  of 

heaven." 

And    Dagonet  answer'd,    "Ay,    and 

when  the  land 
Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye  set 

yourself 
To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  your 

wit  — 
And  whether  he  were  king  b}''  courtesy. 
Or  king  by  right  —  and  so  went  harping 

down 
The   black  king's  highway,  got  so  far, 

and  grew 
So  witty,  that  ye  play'd  at  ducks  and 

drakes 
With  Arthur's  vows  on  the  great  lake  of 

fire. 
Tuwhoo  !  do  ye  see  it  ?  do  ye  see   the 

star  ? " 
"Nay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "not  in 

open  day." 
And  Dagonet,  "  Nay,  nor  will :  I  see  it 

and  hear. 
It  makes  a  silent  music  up  in  heaven. 
And  I,  and  Arthur  and  the  angels  hear. 
And  then  we   skip."      "  Lo,  fool,"  he 

said,  "ye  talk 
Fool's  treason  :  is  the  king  thy  brother 

fool  ? " 
Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands  and 

shrill'd, 
"  Ay,    ay,    my  brother  fool,  the  king 

of  fools  ! 
Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can  make 


Figs  out  of  thistles,  siUc  from  bristles, 
milk 

From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hornet- 
combs, 

And  men  faom  beasts.  Long  live  the 
king  of  fools  !  " 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced 

away. 
But  thro'  the  slowly-mellowing  avenues 
And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
llode  Tristram  toward  Lyonesse  and  the 

west. 
Before  him  fled  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  ruby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a  rustle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer  eye 
For  all  that  walk'd,  or  crept,  or  perched, 

or  flew. 
Anon  the  face,  as,  when  a  gust  hath  blown, 
Unruffling  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Ofone  that  in  them  sees  himself,  return'd  ; 
But  at  the  slot  or  fewmets  of  a  deer. 
Or  ov'n  a  fall'n  feather,  vauish'd  again. 

So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to  lawn 
Thro'  many  a  league-long  bower  he  rode. 

At  length 
A  lodge  of  intertwisted  beechen-boughs 
Furze-cramm'd,  and  bracken- rooft,  the 

which  himself 
Built  for  a  sunmierday  with  Queen  Isolt 
Against  a  shower,  dark  in   the  golden 

grove 
Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to  where 
She  lived  a  moon  in  that  low  lodge  with 

him  : 
Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Cornish 

king. 
With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was 

away. 
And  sn.atch'd  her  thence  ;  yet  dreading 

worse  than  shame 
Her  warrior   Tristram,    spake   not   any 

word. 
But  bode   his  hour,  devising  wretched- 
ness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tristram 

lookt 
So  sweet,  that,  halting,  in  he  past,  and 

sank 
Down  on  a  drift  of  foliage  random-blown  ; 
But  could  not  rest  for  nmsing  how   to 

smooth 
And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the  Queen. 
Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from  all 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


435 


The  tonguesters  of  the  court  she  had  not 

heard. 
But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  overseas 
After  she  left  him  lonely  here  ?  a  name  ? 
Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 
Isolt,  the  daughter  of  the  King  ?    "  Isolt 
Of  the  white  hands  "  they  call'd  her  :  the 

sweet  name 
Allured  him  first,  and  then  the  maid 

herself, 
Who  served  him  well  with  those  white 

hands  of  hers. 
And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had 

thought 
He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily. 
But  left  her  all  as  easily,  and  retum'd. 
The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish  eyes 
Had  dra^vn  him  home  —  what  marvel  ? 

then  he  laid 
His  brows   upon  the  drifted  leaf  and 

dream'd. 

He  seem'd  to  pace  thestrand  of  Brittany 
Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride, 
And  show'd  them  both  the  ruby-chain, 

and  both 
Began  to  straggle  for  it,  till  his  Queen 
Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand  was 

red. 
Then  cried  the  Breton,  "  Look,  her  hand 

is  red  ! 
These  be  no  rubies,  this  is  frozen  blood. 
And  melts  within  her  hand  —  her  hand 

is  hot 
With  ill  desires,  but  this  I  gave  thee,  look, 
Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower." 
Follow'd  a  rush  of  eagle's  wings  and  then 
A  whimpering  of  the  spirit  of  the  child. 
Because  the  twain  had  spoil'd  her  carcanet. 

He  dream'd  ;  but  Arthur  with  a  hun- 
dred spears 
Rode  far,  till  o'er  the  illimitable  reed. 
And  many  a  glancing  plash  and  sallowy 

isle, 
The  wide-wing'd  sunset  of  the  misty 

marsh 
Glared  on  a  huge  machicolated  tower 
That  stood  with  open  doors,  whereout 

was  roU'd 
A  roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 
Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their  ease 
Among  their  harlot-biides,  an  evil  song. 
"  Lo  there,"  said  one  of  Arthur's  youtli, 

for  there. 
High  on  a  grim  dead  tree  before  the  tower, 
A  goodly  brother  of  The  Table  Round 


Swung  by  the  neck  :  and  on  the  boughs 

a  shield 
Showing  a  shower  of  blood  in  a  field  noir, 
And  therebeside  a  horn,  inflamed  the 

knights 
At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spnrj 
Till   each  would  clash  the  shield,  and 

blow  the  horn. 
But  Arthur  waved  them  back  :  alone  he 

rode. 
Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  of  the  great 

horn, 
That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh  aloft 
An  ever  upward-rushing  storm  and  cloud 
Of  shriek  and  plume,  the  Red  Knight 

heard,  and  all, 
Even  to  tipmost  lance  and  topmost  helm. 
In  blood-red  armor  sallying,  howl'd  to 

the  King, 
"  The  teeth  of  Hell  flay  bare  and  gnash 

thee  flat  !  — 
Lo  !  art  thou  not  that  eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood  from 

the  world  — 
The  woman-worshipper  ?     Yea,    God's 

curse,  and  I  ! 
Slain  was  the  brother  of  my  paramour 
By"  a  knight  of  thine,  and  I  that  heard  *^ 

her  whine 
And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too, 
Sware  by  the  scorpion-worm  that  twists 

in  hell. 
And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death. 
To  hang  whateverknightof  thine  I  fought 
And  tumbled.     Art  thou  King  ?  —  Look 

to  thy  life  !  " 

He  ended  :  Arthur  knew  the  voice  ; 

the  face 
Wellnigh  was  helmet-hidden,   and  the 

name 
Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling  in 

his  mind. 
And  Artliur  deign'd  not  use  of  word  or 

sword, 
But  let  the   dronkard,  as  he  stretch'd 

from  horse 
To  .strike  him,  overbalancing  his  bulk, 
Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to  the 

swamp 
Fall,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching 

wave 
Heard  in  dead  night  along  that   table- 
shore 
Drops  flat,   and  after  the  great  waters 

break 


436 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Whitening  for  half  a  league,  and  thin 

themselves 
Far  over  sands  marbled  with  moon  and 

cloud, 
From  less  and  less  to  nothing;  thus  he  fell 
^ead-heavy,    while   the    knights,    who 

watch'd  him,  roar'd 
And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the 

fall'n  ; 
There  trampled  out  his  face  from  being 

known, 
And  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed 

themselves  : 
Nor  heard  the  King  for  their  own  cries, 

but  sprang 
Thro'   open  doors,  and  swording  right 

and  left 
Men,  women,  on  theirsodden  faces,  hurl'd 
The  tables  over  and  the  wines,  and  slew 
Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman-yells, 
And  all   the   pavement   stream'd    with 

massacre : 
Then,  yell  with  yell  echoing,  they  fired 

the  tower. 
Which  half  that  autumn  night,  like  the 

live  North, 
Red-pulsing  up  thro'  Alioth  and  Alcor, 
Made  all  alsove  it,  and  a  hundred  meres 
About  it,  as  the  water  Moab  saw 
Come  round  by  the  East,  and  out  beyond 

them  flush'd 
The  long  low  dune,  and  lazy-plunging  sea. 

So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from  shore 

to  shore, 
But  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  pain  was  lord. 
Then  out  of  Tristram  waking  the  red 

dream 
Fled  with  a  shout,  and  that  low  lodge 

return'd, 
Mid-forest,    and   the   wind  among  the 

boughs. 
He  whistled  his  good  warhorse  left  to  graze 
Among  the  forest  greens,  vaulted  upon 

him, 
And  rode  beneath  an  ever-showering  leaf, 
Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  a  cross, 
Stay'd  him,  "  Why  weejj  ye  {"    "  Lord," 

she  said,  "my  man 
Hath  left  me  or  is  dead  "  ;  whereon  he 

thought  — 
"  What  an  she  hate  me  now  ?    I  would 

not  this. 
What  an  she  love  me  still  ?   I  would  not 

that. 
I  know  not  what  I  would  "  —  but  said 

to  her,  — 


"Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mate 

return. 
He  find  thy  favor  changed  and  love  thee 

not "  — 
Then  pressing  day  by  day  thro'  Lyonesse 
Last  in  a  roky  hollow,  belling,  heard 
The  hounds  of  Mark,  and  felt  the  goodly 

hounds 
Yelp  at  his  heart,  but,  turning,  past  and 

gain'd 
Tintagil,  half  in  sea,  and  high  on  land, 
A  crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a  casement  sat, 
A  low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her  hair 
And    glossy-throated    grace,    Isolt    the 

Queen. 
And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tristram 

grind 
The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about  her 

tower, 
Flush'd,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors, 

and  there 
Belted  his  bod}'  with  her  white  embrace. 
Crying  aloud,  "  Not  Mark  —  not  Mark, 

my  soul  ! 
The  footstep  flutter'd  me  at  first :  not  he  : 
Catlike  thro'  his  own  castle  steals   my 

Mark, 
But  warrior- wise  thou  stridest  through  his 

halls 
Who  hates  thee,  as  I  him  —  ev'n  to  the 

death. 
My  soul,  I  felt  my  hatred  for  my  Mark 
Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that  thou 

wert  nigh." 
To  whom  Sir  Tristram  smiling,   "  I  am 

here. 
Let  be  thy  Mark,  seeing  he  is  not  thine." 

And  drawing  somewhat  backward  she 

replied, 
"  Can  he  be  wrong'd  who  is  not  ev'n  his 

own, 
But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beaten 

me, 
Scratch'd,   bitten,    blinded,    man-'d  me 

someliow  —  Mark  ? 
What  rights  are  his  that  dare  not  strike 

for  them  ? 
Not  lift  a  hand —  not,  tho'  he  found  me 

thus  ! 
But  hearken,  have  ye  met  him  ?  hence  he 

went 
To-day  for  three  days*  hunting  —  as  he 

said  — 
And  so  returns  belike  withiu  an  hour. 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


437 


Mark's  way,  my  soul ! 

with  him, 
Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than  fears ; 
Nor  drink  :  and  when  thou  passest  any 

wood 
Close  visor,  lest  an  arrow  from  the  bush 


Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark  and 

hell. 
My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for  Mark 
Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for  thee." 

So,  pluck'd  one  way  by  hate  and  one 

by  love, 
Drain'd  of  her  force,  again  she  sat,  and 

spake 
To  Tristram,  ashe  knelt  before  her,  saying, 
"  0  hunter,  and  0  blower  of  the  horn. 
Harper,  and  thou  hast  been  a  rover  too. 
For,  ere  I  mated  with  my  shamblingking. 
Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  the  bride 
Of  on  e — his  name  is  out  of  me — the  prize. 
If  prize  she  were  —  (what  marvel  —  she 

could  see)  — 
Thine,  friend  ;  and  ever  since  my  craven 

seeks 
To  wreck  thee  villanously  :  but,  0  Sir 

Kniglit, 
What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneeled 

to  last  ? " 

And  Tristram,  "  Last  to  my  Queen 
Paramount, 
Here  nowto  my  Queen  Paramonntof  love. 
And  loveliness,  ay,  lovelier  than  when 

first 
Her  light  feet  fell  on  our  rough  Lyonesse, 
Sailing  from  Ireland." 

Softly  laugh'd  Isolt, 
"  Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great 

Queen 
My  dole  of  beauty  trebled  ?"  and  he  said, 
"Iler  beauty  is  her  beauty,  and  thine 

thine. 
And  thine  is  more  tome  —  soft,  gracious, 

kind  — 
Save  when  thy  Mark  is  kindled  on  thy  lips 
Most  gracious  ;  but  she,  haughty,  ev'n  to 

him, 
Lancelot ;  for  I  have  seen  him  wan  enow 
To  make  one  doubt  if  ever  the  great 

Queen 
Have  yielded  him  her  love." 

To  whom  Isolt, 
"  Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  liarper, 
thou 


but  eat  not  thou   Who  brakest  thro'  the  scruple  of  my 

bond. 
Calling  me  thy  white  hind,  and  saying  to 

me 
That  Guinevere  had  sinned  against  the 

highest. 


And  I  —  misyoked  with  such  a  want  of 
man  — 

That  I  could  hardly  sin  against  the  low- 
est." 

He  answered,  "  0  my  soul,  be  com- 
forted ! 

If  this  he  sweet,  to  sin  in  leading-strings. 

If  here  be  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  sin, 

Crown'd  warrant  had  we  for  the  crowning 
sin 

That  made  us  happy  :  but  how  ye  greet 
me  —  fear 

And  fault  and  doubt  —  no  word  of  that 
fond  tale  — 

Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet 
memories 

Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was  away." 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake 
Isolt, 
"  I  had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 
To  see  thee — yearnings  ? — ay !  for,  hour 

by  hour, 
Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 
0  sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee, 
Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  thee 
Seem'd  those  far-rolling,  westward-smil- 
ing seas. 
Watched  from  this  tower.    Isolt  of  Britain 

dash'd 
Before  Isolt  of  Brittiny  on  the  strand, 
Would  that  have  cliiU'd  her  bride-kiss  ? 

Wedded  her  ? 
Fought  in  her  father's  battles  f  wounded 

there  ? 
The  King  was  all  fulfiU'd  with  grateful- 
ness. 
And  she,  my  namesake  of  the  hands, 

that  heal'd 
Thy  hurt  and  lieart  with  unguent  and 

caress  — 
Well  —  can  1  wish  her  any  hiiger  wrong 
Than  having  known  thee  ?  her  too  liast 

thou  left 
To  pine  and  waste  in  those  sweet  memo- 
ries t 
0  were  I  not  my  Mark's,  by  whom  all 

men 
Are  noble,  I  should  hate  thee  more  than 
love." 


438 


THE  LAST   TOUIINAMENT. 


And    Tristram,    fondling   her   light 

hands,  replied, 
"Grace,    Queen,    for  being  loved:  she 

loved  me  well. 
Did  I  love  her?  the  name  at  least  I  loved. 
Isolt  ? —  I  fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt ! 
The  night  was  dark  ;  the  true  star  set. 

isolt  ! 

The  naniewas  rulerof  thedark Isolt? 

Care  not  for  her  !  patient,  and  prayerful, 

meek. 
Pale-blooded,    she  will  yield  herself  to 

God." 

And  Isolt  answer' d,  "Yea,  and  why 

not  I  ? 
Mine  is  tlie  larger  need,  who  am  not 

meek. 
Pale-blooded,   prayerful.      Let  me  tell 

thee  now. 
Here  one  black,  mute  midsummer  night 

I  sat 
Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wondering 

where. 
Murmuring  a  light  song   I   had  heard 

thee  sing, 
And  once  or  twicelspakethynamealoud. 
Then   flash'd   a  levin-brand  ;  and  near 

me  stood. 
In  fuming  sulphur  blue  and  green,  a 

fiend  — 
Mark's  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the 

dark  — 
For  there  was  Mark  :  *  He  has  wedded 

her,'  he  said. 
Not  said,  but  hissed  it :  then  this  crown 

of  towers 
So  shook  to  such  a  roar  of  all  the  sky. 
That  here  in  utter  dark  I  swoon'd  away. 
And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and  cried, 
'  I   will  flee  hence  and  give  myself  to 

God'  — 
And  thou  wert  lying  in  thy  new  leman's 

arms." 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dalljdng  with  her 

hand, 
"May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

old  and  gray. 
And  past  desire  !  "  a  saying  that  anger'd 

her. 
"  'May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

thou  art  old. 
And  sweet  no  more  to  me  ! '  I  need  Him 

now. 
For  when  had  Lancelot  utter'd  aught  so 

gross 


Ev'n  to  the  swineherd's  malkin  in  the 

mast  ? 
The  greater  man,  the  greater  couiiesy. 
But  thou,  thro'  ever  harrying  thy  wild 

beasts  — 
Save  that  to  touch  a  harp,  tilt  with  a 

lance 
Becomes    thee  well  —  art   grown  wild 

beast  thyself. 
How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me  even 
In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me  far 
In  the  gray  distance,  half  a  life  away. 
Her  to  be  loved  no  more  ?    Unsay  it, 

nnswear  ! 
Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak. 
Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  soli- 
tude. 
Thy  marriage   and  mine  own,    that   I 

should  suck 
Lies  like  sweet  wines:  lie  to  me:  I  believe. 
Will  ye  not  lie  ?  not  swear,  as  there  ye 

kneel. 
And  solemnly  as  when  ye  sware  to  him, 
The  man  of  men,  our  King  —  My  God, 

the  power 
Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed  the 

King  ! 
They  lied  not  then,  who  sware,  and  thro' 

their  vows 
The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm  :  — 

I  say, 
Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev'n  when 

old, 
Gray-haired,    and  past  desire,    and  in 

despair." 

Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up  and 

down, 
"  Vows  !  did  ye  keep  the  vow  ye  made 

to  Mark 
IMore  than  1  mine  ?   Lied,  say  ye  ?   Kay, 

but  learnt, 
The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps 

itself  — 
My  knighthood  taught  me  this  —  ay, 

being  snapt  — 
We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul  thereof 
Than  had  we  never  sworn.     I  swear  no 

more. 
I  swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am  for- 
sworn. 
For  once  —  ev'n  to  the  height —  I  hon- 

or'd  him. 
'  Man,   is  he  man  at  all  ? '  methought, 

when  first 
I  rode   from  our  rough  Lyonesse,  and 

beheld 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


439 


That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in 

hall  — 
His  hair,  a  sun  that  ray'd  from  off  a  brow 
Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,  the  steel- 
blue  eyes, 
The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his  lips 

with  light  — 
Moreover,  that  weird  legend  of  his  birth, 
"With  Merlin's  mystic  babble  about  his 

end. 
Amazed  me;  then,  his  foot  was  on  a  stool 
Shaped  as  a  dragon  ;  he  seem'd  to  me  no 

man. 
But  Michael  trampling  Satan ;  so  I  sware. 
Being  amazed  :  but  this  went  by  —  the 

vows  ! 
O   ay  —  the  wholesome  madness  of  an 

hour  — 
They  served  their  use,  their  time  ;  for 

every  knight 
Believed  himself  a  greater  than  himself, 
And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a  God  ; 
Till  he,  being  lifted  up  bej'ond  himself, 
Did  mij'htier  deeds  than  elsewise  he  had 

done, 
And  so  the  realm  was  made  ;  but  then 

their  vows  — 
Fii-st  mainly  thro'  that  sullying  of  our 

Queen  — 
Began   to  gall  the  knighthood,  asking 

whence 
Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to  him- 
self? 
Dropt  down   from   heaven  ?  wash'd  up 

from  out  the  deep  ? 
They  fail'd  to  trace  him  thro'  the  flesh 

and  blood 
Of  our  old    Kings :    whence    then  ?    a 

doubtful  lord 
To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows, 
Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would 

violate  : 
For  feel  this  arm  of  mine  —  the  tide 

within 
Red  with  free  chase  and  heather-scented 

air. 
Pulsing  full  man  ;  can  Arthur  make  me 

pure 
As  any  maiden  child  ?  lock  itp  my  tongue 
From  uttering  freely  what  I  freely  hesir  ? 
Bind  me  to  one  ?   The  great  world  laughs 

at  it. 
And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and 

know 
The  ptai-migan  that  whitens  ere  his  hour 
"Vooes  his  own  end  ;  we  are  not  angels 

hero 


Nor  shall  be  :  tows  —  I  am  woodman  of 

the  woods. 
And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaffingale 
Mock  them  :  my  soul,  we  love  but  while 

we  may ; 
And  therefore  is  my  love  solargefor  thee. 
Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by  love." 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her, 
and  she  said, 
"Good  :  aniturn'dawaymylovefor thee 
To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as  thy- 
self— 
For  courtesy  wins  woman  all  as  well 
As  valor  may  —  but  he  that  clo.scs  Iwth 
Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot  —  taller  indeed, 
liosier,  and  comelier,  thou  —  but  say  I 

loved 
This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and  cast 

thee  back 
Tliine  own  small  saw  '  We  love  but  while 

we  may,' 
Well  then,  what  answer  ? " 

He  that  while  she  spalce. 
Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn  her 

with. 
The  jewels,  had  let  one  finger  lightly  touch 
The  warm  white  apple  of  her  throat,  re- 
plied, 
"  Press  this  a  little  closer,  sweet,  until— 
Come,  1  am  hunger'd  and  half-unger'd  — 

meat. 
Wine,  wine  —  and  I  will  love  thee  to  the 

death. 
And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to  come." 

So  then,  when  both  were  brought  to 

full  accord, 
She  rose,  and  set  hcfoir  him  all  he  will'd  ; 
And  after  these  had  comforted  the  blood 
With  m(»ats  and  wines  and  satiated  their 

hearts  — 
Now  talking  of  their  woodland  panidis<^ 
The  deer,  the  dews,  the  fern,  the  founts, 

the  lawns ; 
Now  mo<;king  at  the  much  ungiuiilini's.s. 
And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane  legs 

of  Mark  — 
Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the  harp, 

and  Siing  : 

"Ay,  ny,  Oay  —  the  winds  that  bend  the 

brier  ! 
A  star  in  heaven,  a  star  within  the  mere  ! 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay  —  a  star  wits  my  desire. 
And  one  was  far  ai>art,  and  one  was  m-ar  ; 


440 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Ay,  ay,  0  ay  —  the  winds  that  bow  the 

grass  ! 
And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was  fire. 
And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will  pass. 
Ay,  ay,  0  ay  —  the  winds  that  move  the 

mere." 

Then  in  the  light's  last  glimmer  Tris- 
tram show'd 
And  swntig  the  ruby  carcanet.  She  cried, 
"The  collar  of  some  order,  which  our  King 
Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my  soul, 
For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond  thy 
peers." 

"Not  so,  my  Queen,"  he  said,  "but 

the  red  fruit 

Grown  on  a  magic  oak-tree  in  mid-heaven, 

And  won  by  Tristram  as  a  tourney-prize, 

And  hither  brought  by  Tristi-am  for  his 

last 
Love-ofTering  and    peace-offering    unto 
thee." 

He  rose,  he  turn'd,  and  flinging  round 
her  neck, 


Claspt  it ;  but  while  he  bow'd  himself  to 

lay 
Warm    kisses    in    the    hollow   of   her 

throat, 
Out  of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had 

touch'd, 
Behind  him  rose  a  shadow  and  a  shriek  — 
"  Mark's  way,"  said  Mark,  and  clovehim 

thro'  the  brain. 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and 

while  he  climb' d, 
All   in  a  death-dumb  autumn-dripping 

gloom. 
The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look'd  and 

saw 
The  great  Queen's  bower  was  dark,  — 

about  his  feet 
A  voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  question'd 

it, 
"  What  art  thou  ? "  and  the  voice  about 

his  feet 
Sent  up  an  answer,  sobbing,  "  I  am  thy 

fool, 
And  I   shall    never    make   thee   smile 

again." 


THE  END. 


■^9 


J 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  Saji  Diego 

DATE  DUE 

r.rr>   o  o  IGQ] 

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JUN  1  6  1937 

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